speck of zinc ointment on a minute piece of cotton, and considered myself peculiarly fortunate. Which details cannot possibly offend the reader's aesthetic sense to a greater degree than have already certain minutiae connected with the sanitary arrangements of The Directeur's little home for homeless boys and girls—therefore I will not trouble to beg the reader's pardon; but will proceed with my story proper or improper.
"Mais qu'est-ce que vous avez," Monsieur le Surveillant demanded, in a tone of profound if kindly astonishment, as I wended my lonely way to la soupe some days after the disappearance of les partis.
I stood and stared at him very stupidly without answering, having indeed nothing at all to say.
"But why are you so sad?" he asked.
"I suppose I miss my friend," I ventured.
"Mais—mais—" he puffed and panted like a very old and fat person trying to persuade a bicycle to climb a hill—"mais—vous avez de la chance!"
"I suppose I have," I said without enthusiasm.
"Mais—mais—parfaitement—vous avez de la chance—uh-ah—uh-ah—parceque—comprenez-vous—votre camarade—ah-ah—a attrapé prison!"
"Uh-ah!" I said wearily.
"Whereas," continued Monsieur, "you haven't. You ought to be extraordinarily thankful and particularly happy!"
"I should rather have gone to prison with my friend," I stated briefly; and went into the dining-room, leaving the Surveillant uh-ahing in nothing short of complete amazement.
I really believe that my condition worried him, incredible as this may seem. At the time I gave neither an extraordinary nor a particular damn about Monsieur le Surveillant, nor indeed about "l'autre américain" alias myself. Dimly, through a fog of disinterested inapprehension, I realized that—with the exception of the plantons and, of course, Apollyon—everyone was trying very hard to help me; that The Zulu, Jean, The Machine-Fixer, Mexique, The Young Skipper, even The Washing Machine Man (with whom I promenaded fre-
