and red arms smiled on us and gave us water to drink.
And at eight o'clock we reached Flushing all very weary and extremely
dirty. The kiddies had a good meal set out on white tablecloths, and
the doctor and I had the best Pilsener of our lives. We handed over
the kiddies to the ship stewards and the fresh escort from England, and
retired to rest.

I awoke at six and found that all the children were on deck, and the
bad English boy almost in the water, for his heels were off the ground
and his head far down towards the water. He was looking for fish, he
said. None of the children had seen the sea before, but I think they
were too tired to be excited about it. They did become excited when
they saw the cliffs of Dover.

Much to my annoyance a gentleman had been teaching them _God Save the
King_ on the way over. I was annoyed because I knew it was a piece of
jingoism meant for the journalists at Folkestone. When we drew up at
the pier, sure enough the gentleman struck up the tune, and the kiddies
sang it. But the girls who could speak English sang _God Save YOUR
Gracious King_. I thought it a beautiful touch; the finest piece of
good taste I have ever come across.

I didn't like the well-dressed ladies who came bossing around at
Folkestone. Frankly I was jealous. As I was leading the children off
the steamer, one of them touched me on the arm and asked me to make way
for the children. And I smiled to see that the women in rich dresses
managed somehow to get in front of the camera.

We took the children to Sandwich by rail and then to a camp by motor
lorry. It was a tiresome job loading and unloading the lorry, but
after six trips I found that every child was in camp. I went off to
have a wash and some tea, and then, glowing with self-satisfaction at
all I had done, I lit a cigar and walked outside. A gentleman passed
me.

"Are you a worker?" he demanded.

"I--er--I suppose I am--in a way," I said modestly.

"Well, don't you think you might find something to do?" he asked.
"There's plenty to do, you know."

Then for the first time in my life I understood the old Mons Ribbon men
who used to annihilate the recruit with the terse phrase: "Afore you
came up!"

The pressmen passed by, a dozen of them with the stowaway in their
midst. Presently they posed him and a dozen cameras snapped while a
cinema burred. And next day the papers told a romantic story; the
stowaway had crept into the train at Vienn