ralleled insistence, and the idea of spending
the two remaining days before the battalion went back to the trenches in
company with sixty other men in a barn grew more and more odious. If he
were to go off even for twenty-four hours, he would receive, on return,
probably nothing more than a few days Field Punishment, which, after
all, was not so bad when one grew used to it. He was sick of the life of
a soldier, sick of obeying officers half his age, sick of being ordered
to do things that seemed senseless to him; he would be quit of it all
for twenty-four hours.

John Williams went to the only shop in the village to buy food, with the
aid of fifty centimes and a wonderful Lingua Franca of his own, and when
his companions collected in their billet that night he was already far
away on the open road. He walked fast through the still September
evening, and as he walked he sang, and the woods echoed to the strange
songs that gipsies sing to themselves as they squat round their fires at
night. When at last he came to a halt he soon found sleep, and lay
huddled up in his greatcoat at the foot of a poplar tree, until the dawn
awoke him.

All through the summer day he walked, his Romany blood singing in his
veins at the feel of the turf beneath his feet, and evening found him
strolling contentedly through the village to his billet. Suddenly a
sentry challenged: "'Alt! who goes there?"

"Downshires," came the reply.

"Well, what the 'ell are you doin' of 'ere?"

"I be going back to my regiment."

"Well, your regiment's in the trenches. They relieved us sudden like
last night, owing to us getting cut up. You see, they Germans attacked
us and killed a good few of our chaps before we drove 'em out again, so
the Downshires 'ad to come up and relieve us late; somewhere about
eleven o'clock they must 'ave left 'ere. What are you doing of, any'ow?"
he asked jokingly. "Are you a bloomin' deserter what's come to be
arrested?" But he posed the question to empty air, for Williams was
retracing his steps at a steady double.

"Seems to me that bloke 'll get hisself inter trouble," said the sentry
of the Westfords as he spat in disgust. Then he forgot all about it, and
fell to wondering what the bar of the Horse and Plough must be looking
like at the moment.

John Williams knew that he had burnt his boats, and he became a deserter
in real earnest. For several weeks he remained at large, and each day
made the idea of giving himself