om piles of manuscript, the sheep from the goats. The former are
destined to be smothered in official stamps and coloured inks, while
the latter are cast ignominiously into the gigantic waste-paper
basket. Though this little sheep, in particular, may have a little of
its wool shorn off, I trust that it may eventually avoid the rubbish
heap. For this reason I must ask the reader to be contented with a
very curtailed and disjointed account of the remainder of my
wanderings.

* * * * *

In due course I was placed in a quarantine camp, to remain there until
a given number of days should elapse, when, on being pronounced free
from infection, I should be allowed to continue my journey through
Holland. The camp contained a number of German deserters who, it
appeared, crossed the frontier in this district at the average rate of
one per diem, having for the most part arrived direct from the front,
with every intention of leaving their beloved "_Vaterland_" behind for
ever. They made no secret of the fact that they hoped to be able to
emigrate to England or America as soon as it was all over. Several of
them were N.C.O.'s, wearing the black and white ribbon of the Iron
Cross, to all appearances good soldiers whom their relentless system
had forced to desertion rather than the terror of the British guns.
The Germans occupied a separate hut, and were kept strictly to
themselves. This probably saved a lot of trouble, for, judging by the
spirited way they occasionally sang "_Deutschland, Deutschland ueber
alles_," accompanied by an accordion, the spirit of patriotism and
savage "kultur" still flowed in their veins. Doubtless the first
German band to return to England will be composed of the most gentle
peace and beer-loving Huns that ever visited our favoured shores.
Whatever the nature of the welcome and guarantees extended to them by
our English "Bolsheviks" (who even now have the audacity to advocate a
policy of "shake and be friends"), their lives will not be at all
secure when they come in contact, as they ultimately must, with
Britishers who have been most brutally treated and forced to work as
prisoners in the German salt mines, men who have come to know the
truth of the saying, "Once a Bosch, always a Bosch," during their stay
of several years in Hunland. I feel genuinely sorry for the very few
really nice Germans who certainly do exist (several of whom I met
during my captivity). However, con