"Yes, I know Frank Wickoff in Oklahoma City--knew him when he was
poor as Job's turkey, and then my folks used to borrow money at his
bank. Before we came to Oklahoma City we lived in Austin. We ran
the Good Luck, or was it the Fair; no, we ran the Fair in Dallas."
At a quick look at her face from me she laughed and said: "Oh, yes,
I'm Jew all right. No," she returned to a query, "I never was in
Wichita. But when we moved to Blackwell we used to take the Beacon!"

"Henry, come here," came the call from me. "Here is old Subscriber
and Constant Reader!" Then Henry came up and the subsequent
proceedings interested me no more. For Henry took the witness. And
the three of us, kicking our heels on the cement wall below us,
sat swapping yarns about mutual friends in the Southwest. It seems
that in France the lady is a pedlar who goes from town to town
on market day with notions and runs a little notion wagon through
the country between times. She told us of an air raid of the night
before on St. Dizier where eleven people had been killed and
urged us to stay for the funeral the next day. It was to be a sight
worth seeing. Most of the dead were women and children. There was
nothing military in the little town but the two hotels that housed
soldiers and their friends and relatives going to the front and
coming back. Yet the Germans had come, dropped a score of bombs
on the town, then had flown away for another town, dropping their
hateful eggs across country as they went. Luneville had lost half
a dozen, Fismes half a score, and other towns of the neighbourhood,
accordingly--all civilians, mostly women and children; and not a
town raided had any military works or if it had a munition factory,
the bombs had hit miles from the plants.

[Illustration: Henry puffed on his dreadnaught pipe and left the