Each of us had his “scouts” to bring him the bazaar rumor, the Turkish bath rumor, the cafe rumor.  Some of our scouts journeyed as far afield as Monastir and Doiran, returning to drip snow on the floor, and to tell us tales, one-half of which we refused to believe, and the other half the censor refused to pass.  With each other’s visitors it was etiquette not to interfere.  It would have been like tapping a private wire.  When we found John sketching a giant stranger in a cap and coat of wolf skin we did not seek to know if he were an Albanian brigand, or a Servian prince incognito, and when a dark Levantine sat close to the Kid, whispering, and the Kid banged on his typewriter, we did not listen.

So, when I came in one afternoon and found a strange American youth writing at John’s table, and no one introduced us, I took it for granted he had sold the Artist an “exclusive” story, and asked no questions.  But I could not help hearing what they said.  Even though I tried to drown their voices by beating on the Kid’s typewriter.  I was taking my third lesson, and I had printed, “I Amm 5w writjng This, 5wjth my own lilly w?ite handS,” when I heard the Kid saying: 

“You can beat the game this way.  Let John buy you a ticket to the Piraeus.  If you go from one Greek port to another you don’t need a vise.  But, if you book from here to Italy, you must get a permit from the Italian consul, and our consul, and the police.  The plot is to get out of the war zone, isn’t it?  Well, then, my dope is to get out quick, and map the rest of your trip when you’re safe in Athens.”

It was no business of mine, but I had to look up.  The stranger was now pacing the floor.  I noticed that while his face was almost black with tan, his upper lip was quite white.  I noticed also that he had his hands in the pockets of one of John’s blue serge suits, and that the pink silk shirt he wore was one that once had belonged to the Kid.  Except for the pink shirt, in the appearance of the young man there was nothing unusual.  He was of a familiar type.  He looked like a young business man from our Middle West, matter-of-fact and unimaginative, but capable and self-reliant.  If he had had a fountain pen in his upper waistcoat pocket, I would have guessed he was an insurance agent, or the publicity man for a new automobile.  John picked up his hat, and said, “That’s good advice.  Give me your steamer ticket, Fred, and I’ll have them change it.”  He went out; but he did not ask Fred to go with him.

Uncle Jim rose, and murmured something about the Cafe Roma, and tea.  But neither did he invite Fred to go with him.  Instead, he told him to make himself at home, and if he wanted anything the waiter would bring it from the cafe downstairs.  Then the Kid, as though he also was uncomfortable at being left alone with us, hurried to the door.  “Going to get you a suitcase,” he explained.  “Back in five minutes.”