My Four Weeks in France

By Ring Lardner.

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I

Dodging Submarines to Cover the Biggest Game of All

Wednesday, July 18. A Lake Michigan Port.

I kept an appointment today with a gentleman from Somewhere in Connecticut.

“How,” said he, “would you like to go to France?”

I told him I’d like it very much, but that I was thirty-two years old, with a dependable wife and three unreliable children.

“Those small details,” he said, “exempt you from military duty. But we want you as a war correspondent.”

I told him I knew nothing about war. He said it had frequently been proved that that had nothing to do with it. So we hemmed and we hawed, pro and con, till my conscientious objections were all overruled.

“In conclusion,” said he, “we’d prefer to have you go on a troopship. That can be arranged through the War Department. There’ll be no trouble about it.”

Monday, July 30. A Potomac Port.

Today I took the matter up with the War Department, through Mr. Creel.

“Mr. Creel,” I said, “can I go on a troopship?”

“No,” said Mr. Creel.

There was no trouble about it.

Wednesday, August 1. An Atlantic Port.

The young man in the French Consulate has taken a great fancy to me. He will not visé my passport till I bring him two more autographed pictures of myself.

George W. Gloom of the steamship company said there would be a ship sailing Saturday.

“Are we convoyed through the danger zone?” I inquired.

“We don’t guarantee it,” said he. “There has never been an accident on this line,” he added.

“What I was thinking about,” said I, “wouldn’t be classed as an accident.” Further questioning developed the comforting fact that the ship I am taking has never been sunk.

I told him I wanted a cabin to myself, as I expected to work.