"Good day," I said cheerfully, speaking in French. "I'm on my way back from a ball--a fancy-dress ball--and my car has run out of petrol. I want to hire a cart to go to Argelès." If I had said I wanted to hire a steam-yacht, my simple statement could not have been more apathetically received.... Happily, for some unobvious reason, no one seemed to associate me with the bullocks' waywardness, but it took me ten minutes' cajolery to elicit the address of a peasant who might hire me a cart. At last I was told his lodging and pointed the way. Such direction proved supererogatory, first, because we all moved off together, and, secondly, because it subsequently transpired that the gentleman whom I was seeking was already present. But that is France. Upon arrival at his house my friend stepped out of the ruck and, with the utmost composure, asked if it was true that I was desiring to be driven to Argelès. Controlling my indignation, I replied with equal gravity that such was my urgent ambition. Taking a wrist-watch from my pocket, I added that upon reaching a garage at Argelès, I would deduct the time we had taken from half an hour and cheerfully give him a franc for every minute that was left. I can only suppose that so novel a method of payment aroused his suspicion. Be that as it may, with an apologetic bow, the fellow requested to see the colour of my money. Then and then only did I remember that I had not a brass farthing upon my person. What was worse, I felt pretty sure that Adèle and Berry were equally penniless... My exit from that village I try to forget. I found that the waters of humiliation were deeper than I could have believed. They seemed, in fact, bottomless. It is, perhaps, unnecessary to say that I returned by the way I had come. I had had enough of the road to Argelès. My one idea was to rejoin Adèle and Berry and to sit down in the car. Mentally and physically I was weary to death. I craved to set my back against the buttress of company in this misfortune, and I was mad to sit down. Compared with standing any longer upon my feet, the contingency of dislocation became positively attractive.... The first thing that met my eyes, as I limped round the last of the bends, was the bonnet of a dilapidated touring car. I could have thrown up my rotten hat. A few feet further from Lourdes than Pong himself was an aged grey French car. Standing in the white road between the two was a strapping figure in pale pink georgette and a large Leghorn hat, apparently arguing with three blue-covered mechanics. From Pong's off-side window the conical hat and extravagant ruff of 'Pierrette' were protruding excitedly. My companions' relief to see me again was unfeigned. As I came up, Adèle gave a whimper of delight, and a moment later she was pouring her tale into my ears. "You hadn't been gone long when these people came by. We stopped them, of course, and----" "One moment," said I. "Have they got any petrol?"