orses under the shadow of the statue in the centre. The
fried-potato-seller's van had exuded an appetising odour of cooking,
and had gathered round it crowds of marines in tam-o'-shanters with
red woollen balls in the centre, Turcos in great bloomers, and the
always-hungry French and Belgian troopers.

Now all was changed. The square had become a village filled with
canvas houses, the striped red-and-white booths of the market people.
War had given way to peace. For the clattering of accoutrements were
substituted high pitched haggling, the cackling of geese in crates,
the squawks of chickens tied by the leg. Little boys in pink-checked
gingham aprons ran about or stood, feet apart, staring with frank
curiosity at tall East Indians.

There were small and carefully cherished baskets of eggs and bundles
of dead Belgian hares hung by the ears, but no other fresh meats.
There was no fruit, no fancy bread. The vegetable sellers had only
Brussels sprouts, turnips, beets and the small round potatoes of the
country. For war has shorn the market of its gaiety. Food is scarce
and high. The flower booths are offering country laces and finding no
buyers. The fruit sellers have only shrivelled apples to sell.

Now, at a little after midday, the market is over. The canvas booths
have been taken down, packed on small handcarts and trundled away;
unsold merchandise is on its way back to the farm to wait for another
week and another market. Already the market square has taken on its
former martial appearance, and Dunkirk is at its midday meal of rabbit
and Brussels sprouts.

CHAPTER XXI

TEA WITH THE AIR-FIGHTERS

Later: Roland Garros, the French aviator, has just driven off a German
_Taube_. They both circled low over the town for some time. Then the
German machine started east with Garros in pursuit. They have gone out
of sight.

* * * * *

War is not all grey and grim and hideous. It has its lighter moments.
The more terrible a situation the more keen is human nature to forget
it for a time. Men play between shells in the trenches. London,
suffering keenly, flocks to a comedy or a farce as a relief from
strain. Wounded men, past their first agony, chaff each other in the
hospitals. There are long hours behind the lines when people have tea
and try to forget for a little while what is happening just ahead.

Some seven miles behind the trenches, in that vague "Somewhere in
France," the