day Henry had lost; during the night he had won. He put it down in
his black book against the time when we should get to Paris, where
money would buy things. For we ate at camps, slept in hospitals
or in barns or in mess rooms of the ambulance men, and day by day
and night after night we saw much misery and were "acquainted with
grief." There are so many kinds of hospitals in France! The great
streams of broken men that flow unceasingly down from the front are
divided as they reach the base hospitals and field hospitals into
scores of smaller currents, each flowing to a separate place, where
specialists treat the various cases. The blind go one way; those
dumb with shell-shock go another; jaw cases separate from men with
scalp wounds, and hip fractures are divided from shoulder fractures
as the sheep from the goats. Travelling about among the hospitals
one picks up curious unrelated and unexplained bits of information;
as, for instance, that the British Tommy is the most patient man
in Europe under pain. He likes to distinguish between himself and
his wound and is likely to reply to the doctor any fine morning,
"Me? Oh, I'm right at the top form, Sir; but my leg is bothering
me a bit, Sir!" The Canadian isn't so game under a roof as he is
under the open sky and in the charge. And the American grunts more
than he should. But here is a queer thing. The French tubercular
soldier is despondent. With Americans, tuberculosis breeds hope.
Perhaps it is the buoyancy of the young blood of our country; but
no American feels he is ever going to die with tuberculosis. He
feels he is hit hard; that it may take six months or a year to get
on his feet; after that--he goes on dreaming his dream. But the
tubercular French soldiers are the saddest looking men in Europe.

Back in Kansas last spring we had heard a story to the effect that
the Germans were inoculating the French and Belgians behind the