e river near Missy, and were filled with
visions of an armoured motor-boat, stuffed with machine-guns, plying up
and down the Aisne. Huggie and another made the excursion. The boat was
in an exposed and altogether unhealthy position, but they examined it,
and found that there was no starting-handle. In the village forge, which
was very completely fitted up, they made one that did not fit, and then
another, but however much they coaxed, the engine would not start. So
regretfully they left it.

To these adventures there was a quiet background of uncomfortable but
pleasant existence. Life on the Aisne was like a "reading party"--only
instead of working at our books we worked at soldiering.

The night that Huggie and I slept down at Ciry, the rest of the despatch
riders, certain that we were taken, encamped at Ferme d'Epitaphe, for
the flooded roads were impassable. There we found them in the morning,
and discovered they had prepared the most gorgeous stew of all my
recollection.

Now, to make a good stew is a fine art, for a stew is not merely a
conglomeration of bully and vegetables and water boiled together until
it looks nice. First the potatoes must be cut out to a proper size and
put in; of potatoes there cannot be too many. As for the vegetables, a
superfluity of carrots is a burden, and turnips should be used with a
sparing hand. A full flavour of leek is a great joy. When the vegetables
are nearly boiled, the dixie should be carefully examined by all to see
if it is necessary to add water. If in doubt spare the water, for a rich
thick gravy is much to be desired. Add bully, and get your canteens
ready.

This particular stew made by Orr was epic. At all other good stews it
was recalled and discussed, but never did a stew come up to the stew
that we so scrupulously divided among us on the bright morning of Sept.
12, 1914, at Ferme d'Epitaphe, above Serches.

Later in the day we took over our billet, a large bicycle shed behind
the school in which D.H.Q. were installed. The front of it was open, the
floor was asphalt, the roof dripped, and we shared it with the
Divisional Cyclists. So close were we packed that you could not turn in
your sleep without raising a storm of curses, and if you were called out
of nights you were compelled to walk boldly over prostrate bodies,
trusting to luck that you did not step on the face of a man who woke
suddenly and was bigger than yourself.

On the right of our dwelling was a