Yesterday morning, a freckled child, dripping oil and perspiration and clad in a sort of canvas dressing-gown, stumbled into “Remounts” (or “Demounts,” as we should more properly call ourselves nowadays) and presented me with a slip of paper which entitled him, the bearer, to immediate demobilisation on pivotal grounds.  I handed it back to him, explaining that he had come to the wrong shop—­unless he were a horse, of course.  If he were and could provide his own nosebag, head-stall and Army Form 1640, testifying that he was guiltless of mange, ophthalmia or epizootic lymphangitis, I would do what I could for him.

He stared at me for a moment, then at the slip, then, murmuring something about the mistake being his, began to feel in the numerous pouches of his dressing-gown, bringing to light the following items:—­

(1) A. spanner.

(2) Some attenuated cigarettes.

(3) A picture-postcard fashioned in silk, with tropical birds and flowers, clasped hands, crossed Union Jacks and the legend “True love” embroidered thereon.

(4) A handful of cotton waste.

(5) Some brandy-balls.

(6) An oil-can.

(7) The ace of spades.

(8) The portrait (tin-type) of a lady, inscribed “With kind regards from Lizzie.”

(9) A stick of chewing gum.

(10) A mouse (defunct).

(11) A second slip of paper.

He grunted with satisfaction, replaced his treasures carefully in the pouches and handed the last-named item to me.  It read to the effect that both he and his car were at my disposal for the day.  I wriggled into a coat and followed him out to where his chariot awaited us.

I never pretended to be a judge of motor vehicles, but it does not need an expert to detect a Drift when he sees one; they have a leggy, herring-gutted appearance all their own.  Where it was not dented in it bulged out; most of those little knick-knacks that really nice cars have were missing, and its complexion had peeled off in erratic designs such as Royal Academicians used to smear on transports to make U-Boaters imagine they were seeing things they shouldn’t and lead better lives.

I did not like the looks of the thing from the first, and my early impressions did not improve when, as we bumped off the drive on to the pave, the screen suddenly detached itself from its perch and flopped into our laps.

However, the car put in some fast work between our chateau gates and the estaminet of the “Rising Sun” (a distance of fully two hundred yards), and my hopes soared several points.  From the estaminet of the “Rising Sun” to the village of Bailleul-aux-Hondains the road wriggles down-hill in two sharp hair-pin bends.  The car flung itself over the edge of the hill and plunged headlong for the first of these.

“Put on the brakes!” I shouted.

The child did some kicking and hauling with his feet and hands which made no impression whatever on the car.