Thompson is a little man, built like Harry Lauder; hard as nails, tough as raw hide, his skin tanned to the colour of a well-smoked meerschaum, and his face perpetually wreathed in what he called his “sunflower smile.”  He affects riding-breeches and leather leggings and looks, physically as well as sartorially, as though he had been born on horseback.  He has more chilled steel nerve than any man I know, and before he had been in Belgium a month his name became a synonym throughout the army for coolness and daring.  He reached Europe on a tramp-steamer with an overcoat, a toothbrush, two clean handkerchiefs, and three large cameras.  He expected to have some of them confiscated or broken, he explained, so he brought along three as a measure of precaution.  His cameras were the largest size made.  “By using a big camera no one can possibly accuse me of being a spy,” he explained ingenuously.  His papers consisted of an American passport, a certificate of membership in the Benevolent and Protective Order of Elks, and a letter from Colonel Sam Hughes, Canadian Minister of Militia, authorizing him to take pictures of Canadian troops wherever found.

Thompson made nine attempts to get from Paris to the front.  He was arrested eight times and spent eight nights in guard-houses.  Each time he was taken before a military tribunal.  Utterly ignoring the subordinates, he would insist on seeing the officer in command.  He would grasp the astonished Frenchman by the hand and inquire solicitously after his health and that of his family.

“How many languages do you speak?” I asked him.

“Three,” said he.  “English, American, and Yankee.”

On one occasion he commandeered a motorcycle standing outside a cafe and rode it until the petrol ran out, whereupon he abandoned it by the roadside and pushed on afoot.  On another occasion he explained to the French officer who arrested him that he was endeavouring to rescue his wife and children, who were in the hands of the Germans somewhere on the Belgian frontier.  The officer was so affected by the pathos of the story that he gave Thompson a lift in his car.  As a matter of fact, Thompson’s wife and family were quite safe in Topeka, Kansas.  Whenever he was stopped by patrols he would display his letter from the Minister of Militia and explain that he was trying to overtake the Canadian troops.  “Vive le Canada!” the French would shout enthusiastically.  “Hurrah for our brave allies, les Canadiens!  They are doubtless with the British at the front”—­and permit him to proceed.  Thompson did not think it necessary to inform them that the nearest Canadian troops were still at Quebec.