That night--August twenty-second--I slept very little. I had made up my
mind that I was going to the war, and go I would, chest or no chest. Before
morning I had evolved many plans and adopted one. I counted on my
appearance to put me through. I am short and slight. I'm dark and
curly-haired. I can pass for a Frenchman, an American, a Belgian; or at a
pinch a Jew.
I had my story and my plan ready when the next day I set out to have
another try. At twelve-thirty I was seated on Major Farquarhson's veranda
where I would meet him and see him alone when he came home to lunch.
"Excuse me, Doctor," I said when he appeared, "but I'm sure you would pass
me if you only knew my circumstances."
"Well?" snapped the major.
"You see, sir, my two brothers have been killed by the Germans in Belgium,
and my mother and sisters are over there. I _must_ go over to avenge them."
I shivered; I quaked in my shoes. Would the major speak to me in French? I
did not then know as much as _Bon jour_.
But luck was with me. To my great relief Major Farquarhson replied, as he
walked into the house, "Report to me this afternoon; I will pass you.
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