little while. 

 Having thus consummated breakfast, my guardian suggested a walk. Agreed. I felt I had the strength of ten because the coffee was pure. Moreover it would be a novelty to me promener sans 150-odd pounds of baggage. We set out. 

 As we walked easily and leisurely the by this time well peopled streets of the vicinity, my guard indulged himself in pleasant conversation. Did I know Paris much? He knew it all. But he had not been in Paris for several (eight was it?) years. It was a fine place, a large city to be sure. But always changing. I had spent a month in Paris while waiting for my uniform and my assignment to a section sanitaire? And my friend was with me? H-mmm-mm. 

 A perfectly typical runt of a Paris bull eyed us. The older saluted him with infinite respect, the respect of a shabby rube deacon for a well-dressed burglar. They exchanged a few well-chosen words, in French of course. “What ya got there?”—“An American.”—“What’s wrong with him?”—“H-mmm” mysterious shrug of the shoulders followed by a whisper in the ear of the city thug. The latter contented himself with “Ha-aaa”—plus a look at me which was meant to wipe me off the earth’s face (I pretended to be studying the morning meanwhile). Then we moved on, followed by ferocious stares from the Paris bull. Evidently I was getting to be more of a criminal every minute; I should probably be shot to-morrow, not (as I had assumed erroneously) the day after. I drank the morning with renewed vigor, thanking heaven for the coffee, Paris; and feeling complete confidence in myself. I should make a great speech (in Midi French). I should say to the firing squad: “Gentlemen, c’est de la blague, tu sais? Moi, je connais la soeur du conducteur.” … They would ask me when I preferred to die. I should reply, “Pardon me, you wish to ask me when I prefer to become immortal?” I should answer: “What matter? It’s all the same to me, because there isn’t any more time—the French Government forbids it.” 

 My laughter surprised the older considerably. He would have been more astonished had I yielded to the well-nigh irrepressible inclination, which at the moment suffused me, to clap him heartily upon the back. 

 Everything was blague. The driver, the café, the police, the morning, and least and last the excellent French Government. 

 We had walked for a half hour or more. My guide and protector now inquired of a workingman the location of the boucheries? “There is one right in front of you,” he was told. Sure enough, not a 

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