One murmured to another: "Magersfontein, Dour, and this--you've had some
successful battles." And one went to sleep, but kept starting up, and
giving a sort of strangled shout--"All gone! All gone!" When each had
rested awhile he would ask gently for a little more coffee, rub his
eyes, and disappear into the column to tramp through the night to Saint
Quentin. It was the purest melodrama.

And I, too tired to sleep, too excited to think, sat sipping thick
coffee the whole night through, while the things that were happening
soaked into me like petrol into a rag. About two hours before dawn I
pulled myself together and climbed into the loft for forty minutes'
broken slumber.

An hour before dawn we wearily dressed. The others devoured cold stew,
and immediately there was the faintest glimmering of light we went
outside. The column was still passing,--such haggard, broken men! The
others started off, but for some little time I could not get my engine
to fire. Then I got going. Quarter of a mile back I came upon a little
detachment of the Worcesters marching in perfect order, with a cheery
subaltern at their head. He shouted a greeting in passing. It was
Urwick, a friend of mine at Oxford.

I cut across country, running into some of our cavalry on the way. It
was just light enough for me to see properly when my engine jibbed. I
cleaned a choked petrol pipe, lit a briar--never have I tasted anything
so good--and pressed on.

Very bitter I felt, and when nearing Saint Quentin, some French soldiers
got in my way, I cursed them in French, then in German, and finally in
good round English oaths for cowards, and I know not what. They looked