"I've a brother twenty years old who's dead. He died on my birthday. He had bronnical pneumonia and typhoid and flu."
We passed along the Parkway. "This is a Bollyvard, ain't it?" said one. Entering the Park, another cried, "Is this the country?" "Sure, them's the Rocky Mountains," said Mickey in scorn.
The first question in the minds of all the passengers was to know exactly how soon, and at what precise point, they would be "in the country." The Park, though splendid enough, was not "the country." As we sped along City Line road there was intense argument as to whether those on one side of the bus were in the country while those of us on the other side were still in the city. Another game that seemed to underlie all their thoughts was that this expedition was in some way connected with misfortune for Germany. Every time we overhauled another car or truck—which happened not infrequently, for the Paradise Special travels at a good clip—that car was set down as German. Every time a swift vehicle passed us we were said to be in danger of being torpedoed. For some period of time we were conceived to be a load of German prisoners who had been captured by the Yanks. Then again one small enthusiast shouted out that we were "bullsheviks" who had been arrested.
Once satisfied that we were really in the country—and they were not quite at ease on this point
