Both Weare and I were glad to meet the old familiar friend in the flesh and wanted to speak to him, but we refrained for fear he might be English and might resent American effrontery. As we passed him, however, we noticed his name across the flat side of the water-bottle. In big, bold letters was the inscription: ‘Captain Squall, Special War Correspondent of “The Morning Press.”’ This was characteristic of Squall, as we came to know; neither ‘special correspondent’ nor ‘war correspondent’ was a sufficient title for him; he must be ‘special war correspondent.’
We had heard of Squall at Tangier and thought we could stop and speak to him, and accordingly waited a moment till he had left the Frenchmen. ‘How-do-you-do, Captain?’ I said. ‘I have an introduction to you in my bag from the correspondent of your paper at Tangier.’
‘You’re an American,’ was the Captain’s first remark, not a very novel observation; ‘I’ve been in America a good deal myself.’ He adjusted a monocle and explained with customary originality that he had one bad eye. ‘What do you think of my “stuff” in the Press?’ was his next remark.
‘A little personal, isn’t it? I read that despatch about your being unable to get any washing done at the hotel because of scarcity of water, and your leaving it for that reason.’
‘Yes, that’s what the British public like to read, personal touches, don’t you think?’
‘Where are you living now? We have to find a place.’
‘Come with me. You know the Americans were always very hospitable to me, and I like to have a chance to do them a good turn. I’m living on a roof and getting my own grub. You know I’m an old campaigner—I mean to say, I’ve been in South Africa, and on the Canadian border, and I got my chest smashed in by a Russian in the Japanese war,—I mean a hand to hand conflict, you know, using the butts of our guns.’
‘Were you a correspondent out there?’
‘No, I was fighting for the Japs; I’m a soldier of fortune, you know.’
‘But the Japanese Government did not allow Europeans to enlist.’