umbly queried of the Almighty
what He meant by saving him from quick death on the field of honor only
to condemn him to be talked to death by B. Cohens in civil life.

It was now six o'clock. Suddenly Peck had an inspiration. Was the name
spelled Cohen, Cohan, Cohn, Kohn or Coen?

"If I have to take a Jewish census again tonight I'll die," he told
himself desperately, and went back to the art shop.

The sign read: B. COHN'S ART SHOP.

"I wish I knew a bootlegger's joint," poor Peck complained. "I'm pretty
far gone and a little wood alcohol couldn't hurt me much now. Why, I
could have sworn that name was spelled with an E. It seems to me I noted
that particularly."

He went back to the hotel telephone booth and commenced calling up all
the B. Cohns in town. There were eight of them and six of them were out,
one was maudlin with liquor and the other was very deaf and shouted
unintelligibly.

"Peace hath its barbarities no less than war," Mr. Peck sighed. He
changed a twenty-dollar bill into nickles, dimes and quarters, returned
to the hot, ill-smelling telephone booth and proceeded to lay down a
barrage of telephone calls to the B. Cohns of all towns of any
importance contiguous to San Francisco Bay. And he was lucky. On the
sixth call he located the particular B. Cohn in San Rafael, only to be
informed by Mr. Cohn's cook that Mr. Cohn was dining at the home of a
Mr. Simons in Mill Valley.

There were three Mr. Simons in Mill Valley, and Peck called them all
before connecting with the right one. Yes, Mr. B. Cohn was there. Who
wished to speak to him? Mr. Heck? Oh, Mr. Lake! A silence. Then--Mr.
Cohn says he doesn't know any Mr. Lake and wants to know the nature of
your business. He is dining and doesn't like to be disturbed unless the
matter is of grave importance."

"Tell him Mr. Peck wishes to speak to him on a matter of very great
importance," wailed the ex-private.

"Mr. Metz? Mr. Ben Metz?

"No, no, no. Peck--p-e-c-k."

"D-e-c-k?"

"No, P."

"C?"

"P."

"Oh, yes, E. E-what?"

"C-K--"

"Oh, yes, Mr. Eckstein."

"Call Cohn to the 'phone or I'll go over there on the next boat and kill
you, you damned idiot," shrieked Peck. "Tell him his store is on fire."

That message was evidently delivered for almost instantly Mr. B. Cohn
was puffing and spluttering into the phone.

"Iss dot der fire marshal?" he managed to articulate.

"Listen, Mr. Cohn. Your store is not on fire, but I had to say so in