A man wabbled wearily down the street on a bicycle. I recognized him as a "special correspondent" who had called on me ten days before, asking advice as to where he should apply for credentials permitting him to describe battles. He later disappeared into the then vague territory known as the "zone of military activity," without any papers authorizing the trip.
He leaned his bicycle against a tree and joined us. He had little to say as to where he had been, but told us that he had been a prisoner of the British army for several days. He mentioned a town near the Belgian frontier where, as he described the situation, "the entire army came piling in before he had a chance to pile out."
I do not know what made me suspect that Mr. Special Correspondent was then the possessor of big news, for he gave not the slightest suggestion of the direction in which the British army was traveling. But I suspected him. In a few minutes he left us to call on the Ambassador. Later, when I saw him ride away from the Embassy on his bicycle, I sent in my card.
Mr. Herrick was as bland as usual, but there was a worried look on his face. I wasted no time.
"Mr. —— called on you this afternoon," I said, naming the special correspondent. "He told you some real news."
"Yes, that is so," the Ambassador replied. "How did you guess it?"
I explained that I only had a suspicion, and the Ambassador continued:
"He cannot cable it, you need not worry. He will not attempt it. He has gone now to write an account for the mail. He told me so that I could make some plans."
"Some plans?" I interrupted. "The news is bad then."