War Correspondents’ Troubles.
Who wants to be a war correspondent? Two American correspondents arrived at Rouen, France. They had been shifted around the country for days. They had hay in their hair and sleep in their eyes, and they hadn’t eaten for years, it seemed to them. Every hotel and boarding house and joint in Rouen was filled to overflowing. They found their way to headquarters and placed their journalistic cards on the table.
“Thank goodness, we’re here at last!” they said. “Tell us——”
But the major wouldn’t tell them. He wouldn’t even listen to them.
“For your impertinence in coming here,” he said severely, “you shall sleep in jail to-night.”
The correspondents smiled happily and shook hands with each other.
“It began to look as though we’d sleep under a bridge,” they said to the major. So he found out about their plight.
“That being the case,” said he sternly, “you shall not sleep in jail to-night. You shall take the train for the coast. There are no places left in the train, but that makes no difference. You shall take it, just the same.”
When they got back to London they went to a Turkish bath and slept for twenty hours before reporting at the office.
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