nformation
and necessary action, please." It emanated from the French Military
Mission and claimed from me the modest sum of two thousand
three hundred and fourteen francs on behalf of one Madame Veuve
Palliard-Dubose, of the village of Sailly-le-Petit, Pas de Calais,
the claimant alleging that my troopers had stolen unthreshed wheat to
that value wherewith to feed their horses. A prompt settlement would
oblige.

I fled panic-stricken down to stables and wagged the document in
the faces of the thieves. They were virtuously indignant; hadn't
pinched no wheat-straw at all--not in Sailly-le-Petit. Might have
been a bit absent-minded-like at Auchy-en-Artois, and again at
Pressy-aux-Bois mistakes may have been made, but here never--no,
Sir, s'welp-them-Gawd. I wrote to the French Mission denying the
impeachment. They replied with a fresh shower of claims. I answered
with a storm of denials. The sky snowed correspondence. Just when the
French were putting it all over me and my orderly-room was hinting
that I had best pay up and save the Entente Cordiale, the French ran
out of paper and sent one of their missionaries in a car to settle
the matter verbally. I gave him a good lunch, an excellent cigar and
spread all the facts of the case before him as one human to another.
He spent an hour nosing about the village, and the result of his
investigations was that Madame Veuve Palliard-Dubose, so far from
having her wheat stolen, had had no wheat to steal, and furthermore
never in the course of her agricultural activities had she harvested
crops to the value of Francs 2314. Virtue triumphant. Evil vanquished.
Madame the widow Palliard-Dubose retired grimly into her cabin,
slamming the door on the world.

Yesterday was New Year's Day. Imagine my surprise when, on visiting
the horses at mid-day, Madame Veuve Palliard-Dubose leaned over
the half-door of her dwelling and waved her hand to me. "_Ah, ha,
Monsieur le Lieutenant_", she crowed, "many felicitations on this
most auspicious day! _Bon jour, belle annee_!"

I was so staggered I treated her to my _perfecto superfino_, my very
best salute (usually reserved for Generals and Field Cashiers). "The
same to you, Madame, and many of 'em. _Vive la France!_"

Madame bowed and smiled with all her features. "_Vive l'Angleterre_!"
What a lot of weather we were having, weren't we? and what a glorious
victory it had been, hadn't it?--mainly due to the dear soldiers, she
felt sure. She hop