told him to
make himself at home, and if he wanted anything the waiter would bring
it from the cafe downstairs. Then the Kid, as though he also was
uncomfortable at being left alone with us, hurried to the door. "Going
to get you a suit-case," he explained. "Back in five minutes."

The stranger made no answer. Probably he did not hear him. Not a
hundred feet from our windows three Greek steamers were huddled
together, and the eyes of the American were fixed on them. The one for
which John had gone to buy him a new ticket lay nearest. She was to
sail in two hours. Impatiently, in short quick steps, the stranger
paced the length of the room, but when he turned and so could see the
harbor, he walked slowly, devouring it with his eyes. For some time,
in silence, he repeated this manoeuvre; and then the complaints of the
typewriter disturbed him. He halted and observed my struggles. Under
his scornful eye, in my embarrassment I frequently hit the right
letter. "You a newspaper man, too?" he asked. I boasted I was, but
begged not to be judged by my typewriting.

"I got some great stories to write when I get back to God's country,"
he announced. "I was a reporter for two years in Kansas City before
the war, and now I'm going back to lecture and write. I got enough
material to keep me at work for five years. All kinds of
stuff--specials, fiction, stories, personal experiences, maybe a novel."

I regarded him with envy. For the correspondents in the greatest of
all wars the pickings had been meagre. "You are to be congratulated,"
I said. He brushed aside my congratulations. "For what?" he demanded.
"I didn't go after the stories; they came to me. The things I saw I
had to see. Couldn't get away from them. I've been with the British,
serving in the R. A. M. C. Been hospital steward, stretcher bearer,
ambulance driver. I've been sixteen months at the front, and all the
time on the firing-line. I was in the retreat from Mons, with French
on the Marne, at Ypres, all through the winter fighting along the
Canal, on the Gallipoli Peninsula, and, just lately, in Servia. I've
seen more of this war than any soldier. Because, sometimes, they give
the soldier a rest; they never give the medical corps a rest. The only
rest I got was when I was wounded."

He seemed no worse for his wounds, so again I tendered congratulations.
This time he accepted them. The recollection of the things he had
seen, things incredi