edral. By
amazing luck, combined with a natural news sense which drew him
instinctively to critical places at the psychological moment, he had
been a witness of the two most widely featured stories of the early
weeks of the war.

Arrested by the Germans in Belgium, and later by the French in France,
he was convinced that the restrictions on correspondents were too great
to permit of good work.

So he left the European war zone with the widely quoted remark: "The
day of the war correspondent is over."

And yet I was not surprised when, one evening, late in November of last
year, he suddenly walked into the room in Salonika where William G.
Shepherd, of the United Press, "Jimmy Hare," the veteran war
photographer, and I had established ourselves several weeks before.

The hotel was jammed, and the city, with a normal capacity of about one
hundred and seventy-five thousand, was struggling to accommodate at
least a hundred thousand more. There was not a room to be had in any
of the better hotels, and for several days we lodged Davis in our room,
a vast chamber which formerly had been the main dining-room of the
establishment, and which now was converted into a bedroom. There was
room for a dozen men, if necessary, and whenever stranded Americans
arrived and could find no hotel accommodations we simply rigged up
emergency cots for their temporary use.

The weather in Salonika at this time, late November, was penetratingly
cold. In the mornings the steam coils struggled feebly to dispel the
chill in the room.

Early in the morning after Davis had arrived, we were aroused by the
sound of violent splashing, accompanied by shuddering gasps, and we
looked out from the snug warmth of our beds to see Davis standing in
his portable bath-tub and drenching himself with ice-cold water. As an
exhibition of courageous devotion to an established custom of life it
was admirable, but I'm not sure that it was prudent.

For some reason, perhaps a defective circulation or a weakened heart,
his system failed to react from these cold-water baths. All through
the days he complained of feeling chilled. He never seemed to get
thoroughly warmed, and of us all he was the one who suffered most
keenly from the cold. It was all the more surprising, for his
appearance was always that of a man in the pink of athletic
fitness--ruddy-faced, clear-eyed, and full of tireless energy.

On one occasion we returned from the French front in Serb