eat God!' he croaked--for he had a fearsome cold--'we're either
about Calais or near Paris or miles the wrong side of the Boche line.
What the devil are we to do?'

And then to put the lid on it his engine went wrong. It was the same
performance as on the Yorkshire moors, and seemed to be a speciality of
the Shark-Gladas type. But this time the end came quick. We dived
steeply, and I could see by Archie's grip on the stick that he was
going to have his work cut out to save our necks. Save them he did, but
not by much for we jolted down on the edge of a ploughed field with a
series of bumps that shook the teeth in my head. It was the same dense,
dripping fog, and we crawled out of the old bus and bolted for cover
like two ferreted rabbits.

Our refuge was the lee of a small copse.

'It's my opinion,' said Archie solemnly, 'that we're somewhere about La
Cateau. Tim Wilbraham got left there in the Retreat, and it took him
nine months to make the Dutch frontier. It's a giddy prospect, sir.'

I sallied out to reconnoitre. At the other side of the wood was a
highway, and the fog so blanketed sound that I could not hear a man on
it till I saw his face. The first one I saw made me lie flat in the
covert ... For he was a German soldier, field-grey, forage cap, red
band and all, and he had a pick on his shoulder.

A second's reflection showed me that this was not final proof. He might
be one of our prisoners. But it was no place to take chances. I went
back to Archie, and the pair of us crossed the ploughed field and
struck the road farther on. There we saw a farmer's cart with a woman
and child in it. They looked French, but melancholy, just what you
would expect from the inhabitants of a countryside in enemy occupation.

Then we came to the park wall of a great house, and saw dimly the
outlines of a cottage. Here sooner or later we would get proof of our
whereabouts, so we lay and shivered among the poplars of the roadside.
No one seemed abroad that afternoon. For a quarter of an hour it was as
quiet as the grave. Then came a sound of whistling, and muffled steps.

'That's an Englishman,' said Archie joyfully. 'No Boche could make such
a beastly noise.'

He was right. The form of an Army Service Corps private emerged from
the mist, his cap on the back of his head, his hands in his pockets,
and his walk the walk of a free man. I never saw a welcomer sight than
that jam-merchant.

We stood up and greeted him. 'What's th