little shed that was once used as a
guard-room. A man and woman were brought in under suspicion of
espionage. The woman was put in the shed. There she shrieked the night
through, shouted for her husband (he had an ugly-sounding name that we
could not understand), and literally tore her hair. The language of the
Cyclists was an education even to the despatch riders, who once had been
told by their Quartermaster-Sergeant that they left the cavalry
standing. Finally, we petitioned for her removal, and once again slept
peacefully. The Court of Inquiry found the couple were not spies, but
unmarried. So it married them and let them go.

The Cyclists were marvellous and indefatigable makers of tea. At any
unearthly hour you might be gently shaken by the shoulder and a voice
would whisper--

"'Ave a drop o' tea--real 'ot and plenty o' sugar."

Never have I come back from a night ride without finding a couple of
cyclists squatting out in the gloom round a little bright fire of their
own making, with some fine hot tea. Wherever they go may they never want
a drink!

And never shall I forget that fine bit of roast pork my friend Sergeant
Croucher insisted on sharing with me one evening! I had not tasted fresh
meat for weeks.

George was our unofficial Quartermaster. He was and is a great man,
always cheerful, able to coax bread, vegetables, wine, and other
luxuries out of the most hardened old Frenchwoman; and the French,
though ever pathetically eager to do anything for us, always charged a
good round price. Candles were a great necessity, and could not be
bought, but George always had candles for us. I forget at the moment
whether they were for "Le General French, qui arrive," or "Les pauvres,
pauvres, blesses." On two occasions George's genius brought him into
trouble, for military law consists mainly of the commandment--

"Thou shalt not allow thyself to be found out."

We were short of firewood. So George discovered that his engine wanted a
little tuning, and started out on a voyage of discovery. Soon he came
upon a heap of neatly cut, neatly piled wood. He loaded up until he
heard shouts, then fled. That night we had a great fire, but in the
morning came tribulation. The shouts were the shouts of the C.R.E. and
the wood was an embryonic bridge. Severely reprimanded.

Then there was the Honey Question. There were bees in the village and we
had no honey. The reputation of George was at stake. So one night we
warily an