Boche. He would not understand it, but it would annoy him
greatly.

Now we leave the town behind, and quicken up along the open road--an
interminable ribbon of _pave_, absolutely straight, and bordered upon
either side by what was once macadam, but is now a quagmire a foot
deep. Occasionally there is a warning cry of "Wire!" and the outside
fares hurriedly bow from the waist, in order to avoid having their
throats cut by a telephone wire--"Gunners for a dollar!" surmises
a strangled voice--tightly stretched across the road between two
poplars. Occasionally, too, that indefatigable humorist, Ernie,
directs his course beneath some low-spreading branches, through which
the upper part of the bus crashes remorselessly, while the passengers,
lying sardine-wise upon the roof uplift their voices in profane and
bloodthirsty chorus.

"Nothing like a bit o' fun on the way to the trenches, boys! It may be
the last you'll get!" is the only apology which Ernie offers.

* * * * *

Presently our vehicle bumps across a nubbly bridge, and enters what
was once a fair city. It is a walled city, like Chester, and is
separated from the surrounding country by a moat as wide as the upper
Thames. In days gone by those ramparts and that moat could have held
an army at bay--and probably did, more than once. They have done so
yet again; but at what a cost!

We glide through the ancient gateway and along the ghostly streets,
and survey the crowning achievement of the cultured Boche. The great
buildings--the Cathedral, the Cloth Hall--are jagged ruins. The fronts
of the houses have long disappeared, leaving the interiors exposed to
view, like a doll's house. Here is a street full of shops. That heap
of splintered wardrobes and legless tables was once a furniture
warehouse. That snug little corner house, with the tottering zinc
counter and the twisted beer engine, is an obvious estaminet. You
may observe the sign, "Aux Deux Amis," in dingy lettering over the
doorway. Here is an oil-and-colour shop: you can still see the red
ochre and white lead splashed about among the ruins.

In almost every house the ceilings of the upper floors have fallen in.
Chairs, tables, and bedsteads hang precariously into the room below.
Here and there a picture still adheres to the wall. From one of the
bedposts flutters a tattered and diminutive garment of blue and white
check--some little girl's frock. Where is that little girl now,