He got so crafty in time he would wait for me at the bottom of the drive and dash out from among the shrubs just as I was vanishing.  One day we had trotted some distance along the Sangatte road, and I was just congratulating myself I had given him the slip, when looking up, there he was sitting on a grassy knoll just ahead, positively laughing and licking his chops with self-satisfied glee.  I gave it up after that, I felt I couldn’t cope with him, and yet there were those who called him stupid!  I grant you he had his bad days when he was referred to as my “idiot son,” but even then he was only just “peculiar”—­a world of difference.

One job we had was termed “lodgers” and consisted of meeting the “sitting” cases from an ambulance train, taking them to the different hospitals for the night, and then back to the quay early next morning in time to catch the hospital ship to England.  The stretcher cases had been put on board the night before, but there was no sleeping accommodation for so many “sitters.”  An ordinary evacuation often took place as well, so that before breakfast we had sometimes carried as many as thirty-five sitting cases, and done journeys with twelve stretchers.  One day at No. 30 hospital I saw several of the girls beside a stretcher, and there was the “Bovril king” lying swathed in blankets, chatting affably!  He was the cook at No. 30, a genial soul, who always rushed out in the early hours of the morning when one was feeling emptiest, with a cup of hot soup.  He called it doing his bit, and always referred to himself proudly as the “Bovril king.”  Alas, he was now being invalided home with bronchitis!

Hope came back from leave and told me she had been pursued half way down Regent Street by a fat old taxi driver who asked after me.  It was dear old Stone, of course, now returned to civil life and his smart taxi with the silver “vauses!” I have hunted the stands in vain for his smiling rosy face, but hope to spot him some day and have my three days’ joy ride.

One precious whole afternoon off, a very rare event, I went out for a ride with Captain D. He rode “Baby,” a little bay mare, and I rode a grey, a darling, with perfect manners and the “sweetest” mouth in the world.  He was devoted to “Baby,” and wherever she went he went too, as surely as Mary’s little lamb.

We struck off the road on to some grass and after cantering along for some distance found we were in a network of small canals—­the ground was very spongy and the canal ahead of us fortunately not as wide as the rest.  We got over safely, landing in deep mud on the other side, and decided our best plan was to make for the road again.  We espied a house at the end of the strip we were in with a road beyond, and agreed that there must be a bridge or something leading to it.  Captain D. went off at a canter and I saw Baby break into a startled gallop as a train steamed up on the line beyond the road.  They disappeared behind the house and I followed on at a canter.  I turned the corner just in time to see them almost wholly immersed in a wide canal and the gallant Captain crawling over Baby’s head on to the bank!  It was one of those deceptive spots where half the water was overgrown with thick weeds and cress, making the place appear as narrow again.