while the smell of the wet clover came faintly to his nostrils. A military policeman at the corner saluted smartly, while a small boy in a little cart drawn by three straining dogs raced him blithely up the village street. At the end of the battered houses still occupied by their owners, and the temporary abode of half a battalion of infantry resting from a spell in the trenches, progression by bicycle became a little harder. Great branches lay across the road, and pits torn out of the pavé by bursting shells made steering a trifle intricate; while occasionally one of the many signal wires which had slipped during the night and was hanging low above his head, scraped the top of his steel helmet.
Once more the familiar "B'jour, monsieur"—this time from an old dame who sat day in day out in a corner under a wall selling chocolate. Just above her head, so that by raising her arm she could have touched it, the nose of a "dud" German shell poked out from the brickwork.
Ruin, desolation—and shrouding it all the cool damp mist of seven o'clock in July.
"The very man!" A voice hailed him from behind, and a gunner subaltern materialised. "Are you going up the line?"
"I am—at once." The Sapper placed his bicycle against a heap of sandbags. "What does my dear one desire?
"The accursed Hun placed two large obuses into the Ritz yesterday afternoon. What do you propose
