person, as he knew from previous experience that he would be stopped and searched by Scotland Yard detectives when the train reached Boulogne and that, in all probability, the films would be confiscated or else held up so long that they would be valueless.  The countess finally consented, but suggested, in return for the danger she was incurring, that Thompson lend her a thousand francs, which she would return as soon as she reached London.  As he had with him only two hundred and fifty francs, he paid her the balance in United Cigar Stores coupons, some of which he chanced to have in his pocket-book, and which, he explained, was American war currency.  He told me that he gave her almost enough to get a briar-pipe.  At Boulogne he was arrested, as he had foreseen, was stripped, searched and his camera opened, but as nothing was found he was permitted to continue to London, where he went to the countess’s hotel and received his films—­and, I might add, his money and cigar coupons.  Two hours later, having posted his films to America, he was on his way to Belgium.

Landing at Ostend, he managed to get by train as far as Malines.  He then started to walk the twenty-odd miles into Brussels, carrying his huge camera, his overcoat, field-glasses, and three hundred films.  When ten miles down the highway a patrol of Uhlans suddenly spurred out from behind a hedge and covered him with their pistols.  Thompson promptly pulled a little silk American flag out of his pocket and shouted “Hoch der Kaiser!” and “Auf wiedersehn” which constituted his entire stock of German.  Upon being examined by the officer in command of the German outpost, he explained that his Canadian credentials were merely a blind to get through the lines of the Allies and that he really represented a syndicate of German newspapers in America, whereupon he was released with apologies and given a seat in an ambulance which was going into Brussels.  As his funds were by this time running low, he started out to look for inexpensive lodgings.  As he remarked to me, “I thought we had some pretty big house-agents out in Kansas, but this Mr.  ‘A.  Louer’ has them beaten a mile.  Why, that fellow has his card on every house that’s for rent in Brussels!”

The next morning, while chatting with a pretty English girl in front of a cafe, a German officer who was passing ordered his arrest as a spy.  “All right,” said Thompson, “I’m used to being arrested, but would you mind waiting just a minute until I get your picture?” The German, who had no sense of humour, promptly smashed the camera with his sword.  Despite Thompson’s protestations that he was an inoffensive American, the Germans destroyed all his films and ordered him to be out of the city before six that evening.  He walked the thirty miles to Ghent and there caught a train for Ostend to get one of his reserve cameras, which he had cached there.  When I met him in Ostend he said that he had been there overnight, that he was tired of