"You can't have the Morlaas road to-morrow," said Berry, "because I've got it. I'm going to practise reversing through goats. It's all arranged. Five million of the best new-laid goats are to be in line of troop columns two kilometres south of the 'L' of a 'ill by three o'clock." Jill addressed her companion. "We'll go another way," she said. "I don't suppose he's really going there, but, if he did.... Well, when he says he's going backwards on purpose, we always get out of the car." The naïveté with which this unconsciously scathing criticism was phrased and uttered trebled its poignancy. Berry collapsed amid a roar of laughter. Then Jonah pulled out his watch, and we began to arrange ourselves. That Jill might return with her brother and have her mascot too, we had to swap cars; for, as the only two mechanics, Jonah and I never travelled together. I was sorry about it, for Pong was the apple of my eye. Seldom, if ever, had we been parted before. Jonah, I fancy, felt the same about Ping. Our new friend was going straight back. We, however, were proposing to return by Bagnères-de-Bigorre, and suggested that he should accompany us. He shook his head gravely. "No. I--I have to get back," he said heavily. "I must." Then he bowed to Daphne and to us all. "You've been very kind to me. Good-bye." As he turned-- "Till to-morrow," I cried heartily. "You know where we live?" "Oh, yes. You're Captain Pleydell." "That's right. Oh, and--er--by the way, I don't think we know your name." For a moment the boy hesitated. Then he turned scarlet. "N-neither do I," he said. * * * * * It was four o'clock by the time we reached Lannemezan, so, after a little discussion, my wife and Berry and I determined to cut Bagnères-de-Bigorre out of our itinerary and return to Pau by the way by which we had come. Whether the others, who were ahead of us, had come to the same decision, we could not tell. Berry was driving like a professional. The fact, however, that between Lannemezan and Tarbes the pleasant road was littered with more dog-carts and bullock-waggons than one would have expected any three departments of France to be able to furnish, tended to cramp his style. The uses, moreover, to which the occupants of these vehicles subjected the way argued a belief not so much in progress as in _esprit de corps_. As often as not the carts moved three abreast, their human complements comparing excited notes, gossiping and making merry with as much disregard of their whereabouts as if they were gathered in a familiar tavern. As for the waggons, these were frequently unattended, their custodians trudging disinterestedly in rear, absorbed in good-natured argument and leaving their bullocks to place their own interpretation upon the rule of the road. Such confidence was seldom misplaced: still, for the driver of an approaching car to share it, demanded, I suppose, an experience of oxen which we did not possess.