him. He learnt by heart a long and detailed narrative, embracing
all the most impressive idioms and all the most popular slang,
the subject of which was an accident which had occurred to him
in the earlier days of the campaign, a long and a vivid story,
which, once started, would last indefinitely and could not be
interrupted meanwhile.

Armed with no other knowledge of the French language than this,
my friend duly presented himself before the Official
Interpreter, greeted him with a genial salute and waited
throughout his opening speech, which was in French and contained
many inquiries.

My friend made no endeavour to follow these simple questions. He
knew he couldn't succeed and had no intention of giving himself
away by an attempt. Advancing towards the Interpreter's table
and putting his right hand to his ear, "Pardon, monsieur," he
said, "mais je suis un peu sourd, depuis mon accident."

"Quel accident?" said the Interpreter; after which my friend did
not stop talking until he was passed out with a "French,
garrulous."

We met quite recently and talked over things in general, telling
each other, in confidence and on the best authority, all those
exciting details of the progress of the War which men go on
saying and believing until they are officially contradicted.
Getting down to realities, he told me that he has now the
greatest difficulty in believing in the War at all, though he is
within ear-shot of it all the time. His difficulty is due to the