HIER SIND GUETIGE LEUTE[22]

and, when on the departure of the Germans the house had been searched by an indignant populace, German newspapers had been discovered in his bedroom.

It is the custom of the Germans to spare certain houses in every village by chalking up some laudatory notice.  We despatch riders had a theory that the inhabitants of these marked houses, far from being spies, were those against whom the Germans had some particular grievance.  Imagine the wretched family doing everything in its power to avoid the effusive affection of the Teuton, breaking all its own crockery, and stealing all its own silver, defiling its beds and tearing its clothing.  For the man whose goods have been spared by the German becomes an outcast.  He lives in a state worse than death.  He is hounded from his property, and driven across France with a character attached to him, like a kettle to a cat’s tail.  Genuine spies, on the other hand—­so we thought—­were worse treated than any and secretly recompensed.  Such a man became a hero.  All his neighbours brought their little offerings.

The House of the Spy had a fine garden, hot and buzzing in the languorous heat.  We bathed ourselves in it.  And the sanitary arrangements were good.

Grimers arrived lunchless an hour later.  He had been promoted to drive the captured car.  We took him to the tavern where beauty was allied with fine cooking.  There he ate many omelettes.

In the evening he and I suffered a great disappointment.  We wandered into another tavern and were about to ask for our usual “Grenadine” when we saw behind the bar two bottles of Worthington.  For a moment we were too stupefied to speak.  Then, pulling ourselves together, we stammered out an order for beer, but the girl only smiled.  They were empty bottles, souvenirs left by some rascally A.S.C. for the eternal temptation of all who might pass through.  The girl in her sympathy comforted us with songs, one of which, “Les Serments,” I translated for the benefit of Grimers, who knew no French.  We sang cheerfully in French and English until it was time to return to our billet.

In the morning a German aeroplane passed over at a great height.  All the youngsters in the village tumbled over each other for shelter, shouting—­Caput! caput![23]

Later in the day we advanced to Bailleul, where we learnt that the 1st Corps was fighting furiously to the north.  The square was full of motor-buses and staff-officers.  They were the first of our own motor-buses we had seen out in Flanders.  They cheered us greatly, and after some drinks we sat in one and tried to learn from the map something of the new country in which we were to ride.  We rejoiced that we had come once again upon a Belgian sheet, because the old French map we had used, however admirable it might have been for brigadiers and suchlike people, was extremely unsuited to a despatch rider’s work.