Produced by Suzanne Lybarger, Emmy and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries [Illustration: _Route taken by Fifth Division_] Adventures of a Despatch Rider Adventures of A Despatch Rider BY CAPTAIN W.H.L. WATSON _WITH MAPS_ William Blackwood and Sons Edinburgh and London 1915 _TO_ _THE PERFECT MOTHER,_ _MY OWN._ A LETTER BY WAY OF INTRODUCTION. _To_ 2nd Lieut. R.B. WHYTE, 1st Black Watch, B.E.F. MY DEAR ROBERT,-- Do you remember how in the old days we used to talk about my first book? Of course it was to be an Oxford novel full of clever little character-sketches--witty but not unkind: of subtle and pleasurable hints at our own adventures, for no one had enjoyed Balliol and the city of Oxford so hugely: of catch-words that repeated would bring back the thrills and the laughter--_Psych. Anal._ and _Steady, Steady!_ of names crammed with delectable memories--the Paviers', Cloda's Lane, and the notorious Square and famous Wynd: of acid phrases, beautifully put, that would show up once and for all those dear abuses and shams that go to make Oxford. It was to surpass all Oxford Novels and bring us all eternal fame. You remember, too, the room? It was stuffy and dingy and the pictures were of doubtful taste, but there were things to drink and smoke. The imperturbable Ikla would be sitting in his chair pulling at one of his impossibly luxurious pipes. You would be snorting in another--and I would be holding forth ... but I am starting an Oxford novelette already and there is no need. For two slightly senior contemporaries of ours have already achieved fame. The hydrangeas have blossomed. "The Home" has been destroyed by a Balliol tongue. The flower-girl has died her death. The Balliol novels have been written--and my first book is this. We have not even had time to talk it over properly. I saw you on my week's leave in December, but then I had not thought of making a book. Finally, after three months in the trenches you came home in August. I was in Ireland and you in Scotland, so we met at Warrington just after midnight and proceeded to staggering adventures. Shall we ever forget that six hours' talk, the mad ride and madder breakfast with old Peter M'Ginn, the solitary hotel at Manchester and the rare dash to London? But I didn't tell you much about my book. It is made up principally of letters to my mother and to you. My mother showed these letters to Mr Townsend Warner, my old tutor at Harrow, and he, who was always my godfather in letters, passed them on until they have appeared in the pages of 'Maga.' I have filled in the gaps these letters leave with narrative, worked the whole into some sort of connected account, and added maps and an index.