army stepped into a little
victoria, a shabby little _voiture de place_, which trotted him up the
rue du Bac and then essayed to take him along the Boulevard St. Germain
to the _Ministere de la Guerre_. Coming along the boulevard in the
opposite direction, was a little lad of fifteen, bending low over the
handle bars of a tricycle delivery wagon, the box of which contained
enough kilos to have taxed a strong man or an old horse. Men are scarce
in Paris, however, and the little delivery boy, who could not possibly
have been available for the army for another three years, was doing a
man's work, or a horse's work, as you please. The French are a thrifty
race, and the possibilities being that the war will all be over before
that time, it mattered little whether this particular boy developed a
hernia, or tuberculosis, or any other malady which might unfit him for
future military service. At present he was earning money for his
_patron_, which was all that really mattered. So the little boy on the
tricycle, head down, ran squarely into the horse of the shabby victoria,
conveying the French officer, and the _agent de police_ was absent, and
the statue of Claude Chappe stood, as usual, head in air.

Quite a _melee_ ensued. The old horse, which should long ago have been
in a butcher's shop, avoided the tricycle, with true French thrift, but
stepped squarely upon the face of the little boy sprawling under its
hoofs. Another hoof planted itself on the fingers of the lad's right
hand. War itself could not have been more disastrous. The youth rose to
his feet, screaming. The cabby cursed. A crowd collected, and the
officer in the little carriage leaned back and twirled the ends of his
neat moustache. The _agent de police_, who should have been on duty at
the statue, arrived hastily from a nearby cafe. He always took two hours
off for lunch, in good Parisian fashion, and he was obliged on this
occasion to cut his lunch hour short by fifteen minutes. Everyone was
frightfully annoyed, but no one was more annoyed than the officer in the
cab, on his way to the Minister of War.

He was so annoyed, so bored, that he sat imperturbable, one arm lying
negligently along the back of the seat, the fingers of the other hand
caressing the Cross of the Legion of Honour, upon his breast. His eyes
rolled upwards, as if seeking the aeroplane which was not, at that
moment, flying over Paris. The cabby got down from his seat, and with
much vociferatio