know about the steel of his nerves and the keenness of his eye.  He sat in a roomy office with a clean desk, toyed with a paper knife and made quick, sure, accurate decisions in a low hesitant voice that never backed track nor weakened before a disagreeable situation.  He is the man who more than anyone else has laid out the spending of the major part of the first one hundred millions gathered in America by the Red Cross drive last summer.  He held his rank as Major in the United States army, and wore his uniform as though it were his skin, clean, unwrinkled and handsome, with that gorgeous quality of unconscious pride that is, after all, the West Pointer’s real grace.

As we sat in that noble room, looking out across the Place de la Concorde, past the Obelisk to the House of Deputies beyond the Seine, it was evident that Henry was thinking hard.  The spectacle of Major Murphy’s young men in their habiliments of service, Red Cross military uniforms that made them look like lilies of the valley and bright and morning stars, gave us both something to think about.  The recollection of those $17.93 uniforms of ours in the rooms at the Ritz was disquieting.  We had service hats; these young gods wore brown caps with leather visors and enameled Red Crosses above the leather.  We had cotton khaki tunics unadorned, and of a vintage ten years old.  They had khaki worsted of a cut to conform to the newest general order.  They had Sam Browne belts of high potency, and we had no substitute even for that insignia of power.  They had shiny leather puttees.  We had tapes.  They had brown shoes—­we had not given a fleeting thought to shoes.  We might as well have had congress gaiters!  So when the conversation with Major Murphy turned to a point where he said that he expected us to go with him to the French front immediately he took a look at our Sunday best Emporia and Wichita civilian clothes and asked casually, “Have you gentlemen uniforms?” For me right there the cock crowed three times.  Henry heard it also, and answered slowly, “Well, no—­not exactly.”

“Mr. Hoppen,” said the Major, “take these gentlemen down the street and show them where to get uniforms!” Which Mr. Hoppen went and did.  Now Mr. Hoppen is related to the Morgans—­the J. Pierpont Morgans—­and he has small notion of Emporia and Wichita.  So he took us to a tailorshop after his own heart.  We chose a modest outfit, with no frills.  We ordered one pair of riding breeches each, and one tunic each, and one American army cap each.  The tunic was to conform to the recent Army regulation for Red Cross tunics, and the trousers were to match; Henry looked at me and received a distress signal, but he ignored it and said nonchalantly, “When can we have them?” The tailor told us to call for a fitting in two weeks, but we were going to the front before that.  That made no difference; and then Henry came to the real point.  “How much,” he asked, “will these be?” The tailor answered in francs and we quickly divided the sum into dollars.  It made $100.  “For both?” asked Henry hopefully.  “For each,” answered the tailor firmly.  There stood Mr. Hoppen, of Morgans.  There also stood Wichita and Emporia.  Henry’s eyes did not bat; Mr. Hoppen wore a shimmering Sam Browne belt.  Looking casually at it Henry asked: