BY JOHN T. McCUTCHEON
To-night, as I look at Mr. Cobb, aglow with all that tailor, laundry, barber and friendship can do for man, I find it hard to realize that this is the same Mr. Cobb I saw one day last August in Belgium.
Time had not dealt gently with him that day. The sun of his smile had set early in the forenoon. His beard was several days gone. His raiment was an affront to at least three of the five senses and all that was left of his spirit was the droop.
He had eaten nothing for a long time, his feet were sore, and he was so chafed that he emanated sparks at every step.
Even in a land as rich in ruins as Belgium, he stood out a conspicuous masterpiece of wreckage.
The homeless Belgians pitied him!
Late in the evening, after several hours of brooding silence, he gave utterance to the following statement:
“I wish I was back in New York, just sitting down to a good square meal with some friends.”