d the dyke, having evidently
approached by an unobserved track, and were now gazing suspiciously at
me. There being no more prostrate sheaves, I could not very well throw
some down and then pick them up again, for the action would not have
been at all convincing. I therefore had to content myself with
smoothing the side of the stook in a business-like way, trusting that
the uncertain light would not disclose the insanity of my actions. In
a few seconds I moved to another stook, and was commencing to stroke
the sheaves, when the same voices demanded, in a peremptory manner, to
know what I was really doing. It was a case of bluff, so, busying
myself with the heap, I snapped out, "Ach! go away, I have a lot to
do." From the murmur that reached me it was obvious that this abrupt
answer was puzzling them considerably. My position was still extremely
unsafe, for border folk are usually of a very suspicious nature, which
is intensified by the activities of war. At the best of times my
excuse would have been feeble enough. Ordinary people don't usually
rise at four a.m. for the purpose of walking round a soaking field
stroking sheaves of corn. Besides, it was not unlikely that I was
talking to the owner of the field. Whether they saw the brass buttons
on my service jacket, or merely felt that I was wanted, I do not know,
but they walked quickly towards the plank spanning the dyke which
divided their field from mine. Directly they reached it one of them
shouted something that I could not understand and was immediately
answered by a third person, away in the mist. Once across the plank
the men, after jabbering excitedly, came towards me at a quick run.
Needless to say, it is extremely dangerous to be chased in bare
country of this sort just when the day is breaking and the fields
rapidly filling with workers, for once the alarm is raised the result
is almost certain to mean capture. This time, however, it was not a
matter of choice; my hand had been forced, compelling me reluctantly
to play my last card. Picking up my pack and coat, I ran as only once
before in my varied career--the night when I almost felt the
pitchforks belonging to the little devils which chased me away from
Stroehen camp. After running about a hundred yards, trusting to the
mist and uncertain light to partially screen my movements, I turned
aside and dived headlong into a stook, pulling the straw after me. In
a few seconds my pursuers drew level and, to my int