him, and Emile's struggles were over.

* * *

Our days were all the same. Nobody came to see us; we had no books.
There was a newspaper which was brought to us every two weeks,
printed in English, but published in German, with all the German fine
disregard for the truth. It said it was "printed for Americans in
Europe." The name of it was "The Continental Times," but I never
heard it called anything but "The Continental Liar." Still, it was
print, and we read it; I remember some of the sentences. It spoke of
an uneasy feeling in England "which the presence of turbaned Hindoos
and Canadian cowboys has failed to dispel." Another one said, "The
Turks are operating the Suez Canal in the interests of neutral
shipping." "Fleet-footed Canadians" was an expression frequently
used, and the insinuation was that the Canadians often owed their
liberty to their speed.

But we managed to make good use of this paper. I got one of the
attendants, Ivan, a good-natured, flat-footed Russian, to bring me
a pair of scissors, and the boy in the cot next to mine had a stub
of pencil, and between us we made a deck of cards out of the white
spaces of the paper, and then we played solitaire, time about, on
our quilts.

* * *

I got my first parcel about the end of May, from a Mrs. Andrews whose
son I knew in Trail and who had entertained me while I was in London.
I had sent a card to her as soon as I was taken. The box was like a