“And you,” I retorted, “would look less like a bear from the wilderness if you shaved and washed.”
“No soap or razor,” said Gordon, “but I will do it, if you will produce them.”
“I am more provident,” I said; “when I travel, I travel first class”—showing a comb and other articles.
“That’s fine!” he agreed. “But I don’t see what you carry a razor for with nothing to shave—that I can see.”
When he had shaved, as he said, “with tears,” for he declared that the razor was as “full of gaps as a hand saw,” we were ready for the interview.
After some search we found the entrance to the excavation, and introduced ourselves to the people. But instead of the welcome we had expected, they drew together like so many frightened sheep, and made outcries of fear and held up their hands in supplication.
“We are Americans,” I said, expecting that this would calm their fears; but to my surprise they became still more frantic.
Then an old crippled man cried out in broken English, “We know you—devils! The German soldiers have warned us that Americans are savages and kill everybody on sight.”
It was some time before we convinced them that the Americans had come to France to help them, and were fighting on their side.
This German lie to these people showed the deep cunning of the enemy to prejudice the French peasants against American soldiers.