towards the
General. "I wonder if you remember a French interpreter by the name of
de Blavincourt, Sir? He was with you once, I believe."

The A.P.M. across the way paused in the act of tapping a cigarette on
his case. "Little gunner man, wore red plush bags and a blue velvet
hat? Yes, up in the salient in '17."

The General puffed three perfect smoke rings towards the chandelier
(an accomplishment he had acquired thirty-five years previously at the
"Shop" and was still proud of) and smiled. "De Blavincourt? why, yes,
I remember him. He knew more about cooking than all the _chefs_ in
Europe and taught my poisoner to make rations taste like food. Of
course I remember him. Why?"

"Because he came my way just at the end of the War and had rather
a curious adventure," said the Brigadier, stirring his coffee. "I
thought you might be interested."

"I am," the General replied. "What happened?"

The Brigadier cleared his throat. "We were in front of Tournai at the
time, scrapping our way from house to house through Faubourg de Lille,
the city's western suburb. My Brigade Major stumped into H.Q. one
afternoon looking pretty grim. 'We'd best move out of here, Sir,' said
he, 'before we're wafted.'

"'What's the matter now?' I asked.

"'That unutterable little fool de Blavincourt has walked into Germany
with a large scale-map in his hand, showing every H.Q. mess and
billet.' He tapped a despatch from the forward battalion.

"De Blavincourt, it appeared, had been at work all the morning
evacuating unfortunate civilians from the cellars. At noon or
thereabouts he sidled along the wall, past a Lewis gun detachment
that was holding the street. The corporal shouted a warning, but de
Blavincourt sidled on, saying that he was only going to the first
house round the corner to rescue some old women he heard were in it.
And that was the last of him. Seeing that the Bosch opened fire from
the said house seven minutes later his fate was obvious.

"It was also obvious what our fate would be if we continued in those
marked billets, so we moved out, bag and baggage, into a sunken road
near by and spent the night there in the rain and muck, and were most
uncomfortable. What puzzled us rather was that the Hun did not shell
our old billets that night--that is, nothing out of the ordinary. 'But
that's only his cunning,' we consoled ourselves; 'he knows we know he
knows, and he's trying to lure us back. Ah, no, old friend.'

"So we campe