labours, he sank into a corner
and laughed. And it was only when they had been under way for two
hours that he remembered his two other bags, sitting alone and forlorn
at the Gare de Lyon. . . .

It was a great journey that. The heat was sweltering, and they stopped
at every station between Paris and Marseilles--generally twice, because
the train was too long for the platform. And at every station the same
programme was repeated. Completely regardless of the infuriated
whistles and toots of the French conductors, absolutely unmindful of
the agonised shouts of "En voiture, en voiture! Montez, messieurs, le
train part," the human freight unloaded itself and made merry. As far
as they were concerned, let the train "part." It never did, and the
immediate necessity was the inner man. But it was all very
nerve-racking.

At times there were forty Frenchmen in the truck, at others none.
Whether they fell off or were pushed Draycott knew not: they simply
occurred--periodically. One man disappeared for five hours, and then
came back again; possibly he was walking to stretch his legs; there was
plenty of time. But to those who travel in trains de luxe, let me
recommend a journey in a cattle-truck, where, if one is lucky, one gets
a front seat, and sits on the floor with legs dangling over the side; a
bottle of wine in one hand, a loaf of bread in the other, and a song
when the spirit is in one. No breathless rushing through space: just a
gentle amble through the ripening corn, with the poppies glinting red
and the purple mountains in the distance; with a three days' growth on
one's chin and an amalgamation of engine soots and dust on one's face
that would give a dust storm off the desert points and a beating. That
is the way to travel, even if the journey lasts from Sunday night to
Tuesday evening, and a horse occasionally stamps on your face. And
even so did Clive Draycott, Captain of "Feet," go to the great
war. . . .

V

Marseilles has always been a town of mystery--the gateway of the East.
Going from it one leaves European civilisation--if such a thing can be
said to exist to-day--and steps into the unknown. Coming to it through
that appalling Gulf of Lyons, beside which the dreaded Bay of Biscay
seems like the proverbial duck-pond, Notre Dame de la Garde holds out a
welcoming hand, and breathes of fast trains and restaurant cars, and
London. It is the town of tongues, the city of nations. It is not
Fre