In Paris we often saw in shop windows the sign “English Spoken Here,” just as one sees in the windows at home the sign “Ici on parle francaise.”  We always invaded these places at once—­and invariably received the information, framed in faultless French, that the clerk who did the English for the establishment had just gone to dinner and would be back in an hour—­would Monsieur buy something?  We wondered why those parties happened to take their dinners at such erratic and extraordinary hours, for we never called at a time when an exemplary Christian would be in the least likely to be abroad on such an errand.  The truth was, it was a base fraud—­a snare to trap the unwary—­chaff to catch fledglings with.  They had no English-murdering clerk.  They trusted to the sign to inveigle foreigners into their lairs, and trusted to their own blandishments to keep them there till they bought something.

We ferreted out another French imposition—­a frequent sign to this effect:  “All manner of american drinks artistically prepared here.”  We procured the services of a gentleman experienced in the nomenclature of the American bar, and moved upon the works of one of these impostors.  A bowing, aproned Frenchman skipped forward and said: 

“Que voulez les messieurs?” I do not know what “Que voulez les messieurs?” means, but such was his remark.

Our general said, “We will take a whiskey straight.”

[A stare from the Frenchman.]

“Well, if you don’t know what that is, give us a champagne cock-tail.”

[A stare and a shrug.]

“Well, then, give us a sherry cobbler.”

The Frenchman was checkmated.  This was all Greek to him.

“Give us a brandy smash!”

The Frenchman began to back away, suspicious of the ominous vigor of the last order—­began to back away, shrugging his shoulders and spreading his hands apologetically.

The General followed him up and gained a complete victory.  The uneducated foreigner could not even furnish a Santa Cruz Punch, an Eye-Opener, a Stone-Fence, or an Earthquake.  It was plain that he was a wicked impostor.

An acquaintance of mine said the other day that he was doubtless the only American visitor to the Exposition who had had the high honor of being escorted by the Emperor’s bodyguard.  I said with unobtrusive frankness that I was astonished that such a long-legged, lantern-jawed, unprepossessing-looking specter as he should be singled out for a distinction like that, and asked how it came about.  He said he had attended a great military review in the Champ de Mars some time ago, and while the multitude about him was growing thicker and thicker every moment he observed an open space inside the railing.  He left his carriage and went into it.  He was the only person there, and so he had plenty of room, and the situation being central, he could see all the preparations going