rniture, placed some
of the potatoes that were lying about in the fire, made a rough bed
and went to sleep. Awakening later in the day, we raked the blackened
potatoes out of the ashes and filled up on them. We were a fearful
team; absolutely filthy, uncombed, unwashed, unshaven, and with the
Russian's paint still thick upon us. Afterward we went down to the
canal and endeavoured to knock the worst of it off. All danger was
past now. We seemed to walk on air. We were once again British
soldiers. And so fell to abuse of one another, finding fault and
grousing; as all good British soldiers do when they are well off. I
made out to shave Simmons. The terrible razor had never been sharp and
lately had rusted from its travels. Simmons swore lustily and
threatened me, ordering me at the same time and in no uncertain terms;
to desist from the torture.

"Well, we want to go into Holland lookin' respectable. What'll they
think of British soldiers if they see us? Have a heart!" I
expostulated.

"Don't give a damn! I've had enough for being a Canadian; but I won't
stand for this." I left him with his beard still on in patches and the
bare spots bleeding angrily. As I had already committed myself, I had
to bear in silence his purposely clumsy handling of that hack-saw. It
was terrible, and Simmons, the scoundrel, laughed like a demon.

CHAPTER XIX

HOLLAND AT LAST

"No Intern"--Real Bread--Tipperary--A Real Time--The Splendid
Hollanders--The Hague.

The diary summarizes the later events of that day:

"September tenth: Fine weather and in Holland. All our troubles are
over. We struck a small town called Alboom where the people did
everything they could for us. Plenty of food. Slept in a house!"

A man smoking a big pipe and wearing baggy breeches and wooden shoes
came up and surveyed us with kindly amusement, as Simmons scraped at
me with infinite gusto. He was a Hollander; not a "Dutchman." We soon
learned that the latter was a term of contempt applied by the former
to the Germans.

I asked him for some tobacco, which he readily gave to us from a
capacious pouch. He waved his pipe at us in friendly fashion and said
something which we took to be a question as to our identity.

"English," we said, and in desperation turned to our scanty stock of
French: "_Soldats; prisoniers._"

"Engelsch!" he boomed. We nodded. He simply threw his arms round first
one and then the other, so that I wiped the ashes from his p