The Bridgeport times and evening farmer., 1919-05-20

ing, or writing either. But Ina sure there was a small letter between the two big ones"
 Hastily I wrote down a Gothic small ''v."
 Something like this?" I queried
 "Yes, that looks like it."
 The small "v.'' evidently for won" The German beast belonged to the nobility. He had ridden a horse. was young, of medium height He had no moustache. His eyes were wicked, nasty eyes; his nose was or dinary; the mouth "comme-ci, com me-ca' the chin like all other chins That was all I could learn. Peas ants never were very good at de- scription.
 l drew up report and read 1t to Hawthorne When I came back to the detailed account of the sufferings of little SuZette his lips frightened, there gleaUnSd an overlapping flame in his blue eyes. Had the noble tor turer appeared at that moment I be- heve the colonel would have brained him with his fist. would have done it if he hadn't
 Weeks elapsed. I had been sent to another "sectaur" of the line. But I missed the old crowd, Hawthorn es- pecially. so you can imagine my joy when I was sent up north to my old area on five days mission.
 They all gave me the time of my life. Somehow I feel that those who made friends during the first months of the war are linked together with ties that nothing can or will break.
 I was very busy, but found time for long ride with dear old Hawthorn We went to Neuve Eglise and Armen- tieres, and returned to Baileul by way of Neippe. The highroad, with it's everlasting cobb1estones, was crowd ed, as usual-lorries by the dozen troops on the march, refugees, shiv- ering Indians on top of London mo- tor 'buses.' holding the ends or rneir turbans round their neckS with lean trembling fingers. French gendar- mes impatient " red tabs In motor cars, guns, timber. ammunition.
 It was impossible to talk in the deafening din. And there was the continuous, internal booming of guns.
 Prisoners of War.
 We passed close to the house, of Suzette. I had seen her for a few moments the day before.
 Near Bailleul, where the road bends at right angles, we halted, to watch an aeroplane go up. Hawthorn who was a student of physiognomy, and could read character from the face with surprising and uncanny accuracy-was talking about the dis tinctive features of the typical pilot, when a group of prisoners passed by. There were about fifty privates and two officers. Hawthorn's eyes rested on the young, CT of the two officers. The young mans face had an unhealthy sallow- ness, his eyes were beady, the lips sensuous. The expression, in spite of the mans erect bearing and su percilious attitude, was coarse and brutish.
 I looked at this particular prison CT, and then at Hawthorn. The col onel nodded, and returned my gaze. We had the same thought.
 That afternoon Hawthorn dropped into the little office which had been placed at my disposal and put a small bundle of papers on the table a leather portfolio, maps, note book, and a few letters, which I saw were written in German.
 Remember that chap this morn ing?" the colonel asked.
 We had seen scores of chaps dur ing our ride. but I knew the one he meant.
 Was He the Culprft?
 "I have been thinking of him ever since we saw iim-the unwholesome beggar!" Hawthorn went on. Now. you know that flatter myself on be- ing something of an expert in the science of reading character from the features, don't you?
 Don't smile!" the colonel added sharply, bringing his fist down upon the table to emphasize his earnest ness. This Is a serious business"
 had never seen Hawthorn in a temper before. It sobered me instant 1y. His expression was almost vol fish.
 Surely" I said, you are not jumping to the conclusion that the unwholesome began is the very brute who tortured Suzette?"
 "I don't know why" said the col e~>l ',Aas<- ! t,.aaa&las> tAat th~ inaAaa>zsl