His bathrobe still hung on a peg; his other pair of suspenders dangled over the footboard; and his shaving brush, with dried lather on it, was on the floor.

I stepped on it as I got into bed and hurt my foot.
Goodness knows I was tired enough, but I lay awake a while thinking what changes in our journalistic fortunes thirty days had brought us.

Five weeks before, bearing dangerously dubious credentials, we had trailed afoot--a suspicious squad--at the tail of the German columns, liable to be halted and locked up any minute by any fingerling of a sublieutenant who might be so minded to so serve us.

In that stressful time a war correspondent was almost as popular, with the officialdom of the German army, as the Asiatic cholera would have been.

The privates were our best friends then.