ench. "I'm on my way back
from a ball--a fancy-dress ball--and my car has run out of petrol. I
want to hire a cart to go to Argeles."

If I had said I wanted to hire a steam-yacht, my simple statement could
not have been more apathetically received....

Happily, for some unobvious reason, no one seemed to associate me with
the bullocks' waywardness, but it took me ten minutes' cajolery to
elicit the address of a peasant who might hire me a cart.

At last I was told his lodging and pointed the way.

Such direction proved supererogatory, first, because we all moved off
together, and, secondly, because it subsequently transpired that the
gentleman whom I was seeking was already present. But that is France.

Upon arrival at his house my friend stepped out of the ruck and, with
the utmost composure, asked if it was true that I was desiring to be
driven to Argeles. Controlling my indignation, I replied with equal
gravity that such was my urgent ambition. Taking a wrist-watch from my
pocket, I added that upon reaching a garage at Argeles, I would deduct
the time we had taken from half an hour and cheerfully give him a franc
for every minute that was left.

I can only suppose that so novel a method of payment aroused his
suspicion.

Be that as it may, with an apologetic bow, the fellow requested to see
the colour of my money.

Then and then only did I remember that I had not a brass farthing upon
my person.

What was worse, I felt pretty sure that Adele and Berry were equally
penniless...

My exit from that village I try to forget.

I found that the waters of humiliation were deeper than I could have
believed. They seemed, in fact, bottomless.

It is, perhaps, unnecessary to say that I returned by the way I had
come. I had had enough of the road to Argeles. My one idea was to
rejoin Adele and Berry and to sit down in the car. Mentally and
physically I was weary to death. I craved to set my back against the
buttress of company in this misfortune, and I was mad to sit down.
Compared with standing any longer upon my feet, the contingency of
dislocation became positively attractive....

The first thing that met my eyes, as I limped round the last of the
bends, was the bonnet of a dilapidated touring car.

I could have thrown up my rotten hat.

A few feet further from Lourdes than Pong himself was an aged grey
French car. Standing in the white road between the two was a strapping
figure in pale pink ge