‘And now we’ll study the movements of the enemy,’ said David, going to the map table. He took up the first map that lay there, and found it all very clear, for it represented on a large scale the house and garden and lake and the village. There was a direction at the top stating, ‘Route of the Enemy marked in red,’ and David began to follow it. It started from his house, which was odd, since he had never seen any trace of any enemy there, and went down the nursery passage till it came to a square marked ‘Game cupboard, _alias_ Miss Muffet’s.’ Then there was a gap and a note printed, ‘Enemy movements hard to trace here. Possibly he flew.’ And the red line began again in the village street close to the Bank. It went into the Bank and out again, crossed the road into the shoemaker’s, and then went down the village street to the bridge. From there it returned to the Bank again. . . . A terrible idea entered David’s head. This was precisely the route he had taken himself after going through the blue door. He felt himself turn pale, and bent over the map again to make certain. From the Bank the enemy had gone to the house next door, which was labelled ‘Happy Families’ Institute, _alias_ Miss Milligan’s School for young ladies, _alias_ Station. Here enemy entrained.’ From there his route passed through a field or two, and came to the hairdresser’s, which was labelled ‘Hairdresser’s Junction.’ After that it came to an end with the note. ‘Enemy seen flying here at 8.34 A.M.’ David had no longer the slightest doubt that he was the enemy, and was now completely cut off in the middle of the camp of his foes. But then it puzzled him to know why they had made him their own Field-Marshal. Perhaps they didn’t know he was the enemy, or perhaps they had made him their Field-Marshal in order to lure him into this tent in the very middle of the camp. That seemed far the most likely explanation, and accounted for the guard of honour being so weird a collection of people. They were mocking him, or perhaps just putting him to the test, and seeing whether he knew anything whatever about soldiers. It must have been quite clear to them that he did not, and he could have kicked himself to think that he had gone wrestling with Miss Muffet’s spider in the garden-bed when he ought to have been inspecting. He had thought it wonderfully grand to fly all day, and be a Field-Marshal as soon as it got dark, but now it seemed that there were penalties attached to greatness. Never had he or any other Field-Marshal been in so precarious a position. He clearly had to escape, and to escape he had to be alone. He folded up the map. ‘I have studied that thoroughly,’ he said, ‘and I want to be called at half-past seven in the morning. I will arrange the battle as soon as I have breakfasted.’ The Brigadier-General meantime had been eating sausages as hard as he could. He rapidly swallowed all that was in his mouth.