and I felt depressed and uneasy.

The telephone rang and I answered it. It was a business call for me
requesting my services for an out-of-town assignment. Business was not
very good, so this was very welcome. After listening to the
proposition, I seemed to be swayed by a peculiarly strong force within
me, and answered, "I am sorry that I cannot accept your offer, but I
am leaving for England next week," and hung up the receiver. The
Lieutenant swung around in his chair, and stared at me in blank
astonishment. A sinking sensation came over me, but I defiantly
answered his look with, "Well, it's so. I'm going." And I went.

The trip across was uneventful. I landed at Tilbury, England, then got
into a string of matchbox cars and proceeded to London, arriving there
about 10 P.M. I took a room in a hotel near St. Pancras Station for
"five and six--fire extra." The room was minus the fire, but the
"extra" seemed to keep me warm. That night there was a Zeppelin raid,
but I didn't see much of it, because the slit in the curtains was too
small and I had no desire to make it larger. Next morning the
telephone bell rang, and someone asked, "Are you there?" I was,
hardly. Anyway, I learned that the Zeps had returned to their
Fatherland, so I went out into the street expecting to see scenes of
awful devastation and a cowering populace, but everything was normal.
People were calmly proceeding to their work. Crossing the street, I
accosted a Bobbie with:

"Can you direct me to the place of damage?"

He asked me, "What damage?"