"Add Randall, and we have the Three Musketeers complete. You didn’t know that’s our name for you, I suppose? Well, it’s this. A motor cyclist came in just now with a despatch for the colonel, and reported that on the way he had passed a man who’d had an accident of some sort with a motor lorry, and wanted help. Just go and see what you can do, the three of you. I don’t know whether the load is for us; if it is, so much the better. Take my map; the breakdown is thereabouts"--he pointed to a spot some three miles away--"and be as quick as you can." The three men set out, Ginger carrying a bag of tools he had borrowed from the village smith. The place where the accident had happened was apparently on a by-road about halfway between the village and the headquarters of the next regiment on the left of the Rutlands. They followed footpaths across the fields, some of which had been sown by the inhabitants. The air was very misty, and but for the map they could hardly have found their way. But presently they caught sight of a man in khaki sitting on the grass at the corner of the main road and by-road. The man bore the badge of the Army Service Corps on his sleeve. "What’s wrong?" asked Kenneth, going up to him. "Are you the Wessex?" said the man. "No, the Rutlands. You’ve had a spill by the look of you." "You’re right," said the driver with an oath. "And I owe that there parson one. It’s his fault. Did that cyclist send you along?" "No, but the capting did," said Ginger. "Where’s your lorry? We’ll have a go at it." "Well, if you two chaps ’ll be a pair of crutches I’ll take you to it. I’m bruised all over, and my ankle’s got a twist so that I can’t hardly walk. It’s about a mile away." Supported by Kenneth on one side and Harry on the other, the man led them slowly along the by-road. "I only came out a week ago, a Carter Paterson man I am," he said. "I was driving up a load of grub for the Wessexes, and somehow took the wrong turning away back there. I’d drive over London blindfold, but I’m new to this job, see. It came over misty, and I got a sort of notion I was on the wrong road, and there was nobody about to ask the way of, even supposing I could have made ’em understand me. However, at last I happened to catch sight of a fat parson in a long cloak just ahead of me. I pulled up, and pointed to the name of the village on my map, for twist my tongue to it I couldn’t. ’All right, my man,’ says he, speaking English like a countryman. ’You take the first turning on the right’: that’s this road we’re on now. That seemed about the right direction. ’Good road?’ says I: ’not too soft for a heavy load?’ ’Capital road,’ says he. ’Go as fast as you like, straight through to the road you’ve left.’