She couldn't understand why I rewarded her with something akin
to a fit of apoplexy, instead of a liberal tip. That day was a red-letter
one for our photographers. They paid the price in the risks which
constantly strained their nerves. But in it they garnered vastly more
than in the fortnight they had hugged safety.

But, despite all our efforts, there was one object that we were after
that we never did attain. That was a first-class atrocity picture.
There were atrocity stories in endless variety, but not one that the
camera could authenticate. People were growing chary of verbal
assurances of these horrors; they yearned for some photographic
proof, and we yearned to furnish it.

"What features are you looking for?" was the question invariably
put to us on discovering our cameras.

"Children with their hands cut off," we replied. "Are there any
around here?"

"Oh, yes! Hundreds of them," was the invariable assurance.

"Yes, but all we want is one--just one in flesh and bone. Where
can we find that?"

The answer was ever the same. "In the hospital at the rear, or at
the front." "Back in such-and-such a village," etc. Always
somewhere else; never where we were.

Let no one attempt to gloss the cruelties perpetrated in Belgium.