"Hello, old boy!" he said to me in perfect English. "How are you?"
I replied, but must have looked my astonishment at his knowledge of my language, for he went on to explain.
"I got over from the States just the week war broke out. I worked in North Dakota, and had saved up and planned to come over and marry my sweetheart, who waited in Brussels for me. I have not seen her. She must be lost in the passing of the enemy. I have gathered a very little money, enough to start on the small farm which is my inheritance. Come and see it—come and have dinner with me."
I accepted his invitation, and we walked over together. The Belgian spoke all the way of his fine property and good farm. All the while there was a twinkle in his eye, and at last I asked him what size was his great farm.
"Ten acres," said he, and laughed at my amazement at so small a holding.
We reached the house, which proved to be a three-roomed shack. In a little, dinner was served and we went in to sit down. Not only the owner and myself, but fifteen others sat down to a meal of weak soup and war bread. The other guests at the table were fourteen old women and one young girl. They sat in a steady brooding silence. I asked the Belgian if they understood English. They did not, and so I questioned him.
"Very big family this you've got," I remarked. I knew what they were, but just wanted to draw him out.
"Oh, they're not my family."
"Only visitors?" I queried.
"Darned good visitors," said he, "they've been here since the second week of August, 1914."