Davis was a conspicuous figure in Vera Cruz, as he
inevitably had been in all such situations. Wherever he went he was
pointed out. His distinction of appearance, together with a
distinction in dress, which, whether from habit or policy, was a
valuable asset in his work, made him a marked man. He dressed and
looked the "war correspondent," such a one as he would describe in one
of his stories. He fulfilled the popular ideal of what a member of
that fascinating profession should look like. His code of life and
habits was as fixed as that of the Briton who takes his habits and
customs and games and tea wherever he goes, no matter how benighted or
remote the spot may be.

He was just as loyal to his code as is the Briton. He carried his
bath-tub, his immaculate linen, his evening clothes, his war
equipment--in which he had the pride of a connoisseur--wherever he
went, and, what is more, he had the courage to use the evening clothes
at times when their use was conspicuous. He was the only man who wore
a dinner coat in Vera Cruz, and each night, at his particular table in
the crowded "Portales," at the Hotel Diligencia, he was to be seen, as
fresh and clean as though he were in a New York or London restaurant.

Each day he was up early to take the train out to the "gap," across
which came arrivals from Mexico City. Sometimes a good "story" would
come down, as when the long-heralded and long-expected arrival of
Consul Silliman gave a first-page "feature" to all the American papers.

In the afternoon he would play water polo over at the navy aviation
camp, and always at a certain time of the day his "striker" would bring
him his horse and for an hour or more he would ride out along the beach
roads within the American lines.

After the first few days it was difficult to extract real thrills from
the Vera Cruz situation, but we used to ride out to El Tejar with the
cavalry patrol and imagine that we might be fired on at some point in
the long ride through unoccupied territory; or else go out to the
"front," at Legarto, where a little American force occupied a sun-baked
row of freight-cars, surrounded by malarial swamps. From the top of
the railroad water-tank we could look across to the Mexican outposts a
mile or so away. It was not very exciting, and what thrills we got lay
chiefly in our imagination.

Before my acquaintanceship with Davis at Vera Cruz I had not known him
well. Our trails didn't cross while I