Half a second more, and the truck would have backed the little old manout of existence. It was one of those traffic jams for which Paris isfamous, at the corner of the narrow Rue Caumartin. Caught between twolines of taxicabs, oblivious of the truck coming at him from behind, witheverybody vociferously shouting at everybody else, the old chap stoodbewildered and hesitant, or so I thought.Consequently, I made a grab for him, rushed him under the nose of a taxi,and literally carried him to the sidewalk. There, to my surprise, heturned on me savagely with a flood of French."Save your breath," I said. "I don't savvy half what you say, anyhow--"His face lighted up and he switched into English."American, are you? Well, what the purgatory do you mean by assaulting methat way?""Good Lord!" I exclaimed. "When a man saves your life, you jump on him!In another--""Oh, you make me tired!" he snapped. "You're another fool tourist whothinks this is America. Don't you know such things don't happen here?They have jams, but accidents are rare, and they never run over anyoneexcept--""Suit yourself," I told him. "In another jiffy you'd have been theexception, that's all."He laughed suddenly and put out his hand. "Thanks," he said. "I wasthinking about something, to tell the truth. Perhaps you're right. Allowme--"He extended a card. I read: "Peter J. Clancy, D.D.S.," and then heard thesuggestion that we have a drink. I assented."Sorry I haven't a card, Doc," I said. "My finances haven't extended thatfar yet. I came over here to take a newspaper job, got done out of it,and am on my way to book steerage home again. Here's a cafe. My name'sJim Logan."We strolled into the cafe and ordered a drink, and I took stock ofClancy.He was a queer duck. He was small, about five foot five in his boots, andhad long gray hair and a gray imperial. His clothes were black once,perhaps, but now they were greenish and frayed; he wore the red ribbon ofthe Legion in his buttonhole. His face was wrinkled--kindly, shrewdwrinkles, they were--and his eyes were very bright, of a piercing gray.He wore the wide-brimmed black felt hat of the Parisian, and looked asFrench as they make them."Glad to meet you, Logan," he said. "I've lived here fifteen years, andsometimes I get pretty homesick. So you're going back steerage, eh?""Anyway at all," I said, sipping my Rossi. "This is the land of liberty,all right, but what I need is a job and not liberty.""Very well," he said, with a nod. "I'll give you a job--if you can tellme the difference between a Sydney View and a Saint Helena grilled."* * *For a moment he had me stumped, until I saw in his eyes that he wasearnest enough, and deadly serious. Then I laughed. If this was a test,he had chosen it just right for me!"The difference would be about a hundred dollars, if both were in goodcondition," I said. "Or, the difference between high value andworthlessness, as you prefer.""Good!" he exclaimed. "Then you collect stamps?""I don't," I told him frankly. "But I used to. And I know a good dealabout 'em. Do you?""Everybody in France does," he said. "Bless my soul, this isprovidential, Logan! Do you know, I'm really in need of you? Can youspeak French?""Army French," I said. "I can understand it perfectly, but I'm nolinguist.""Better and better! And I perceive you're something of a boxer, from theway you handled your feet. You're powerful, you have a good brain, andyou're not afraid to look at a dead man, or you'd not be in the newspapergame. I can use all these qualities.""How?" I asked, rather amused, to tell the truth. "Pulling molars?""No." He glanced at his watch and paid for the drinks, with a carefulFrench tip. "We've got time--just. Have you a pencil? Give me that cardof mine."I gave him card and pencil. He scribbled a few words in French andreturned them to me.