We passed the first twenty lorries without turning a hair. We just looked at the troops with that gaze of curiosity mingled with admiration that one might expect from any loyal citizen watching his gallant protectors go by. We had passed the greater part of the convoy, and were beginning to feel more at our ease, when suddenly rounding a corner we were confronted by a sentry with rifle upraised and called on to “’alt.” Our driver at once put on the brakes and pulled up. We now realised why the other braves had allowed us to pass unchallenged. We had been led into an ambush—permitted to get right into the middle of the convoy, so that we had not a dog’s chance of escaping. It was a cunning trap, but we would show them how Irishmen can die rather than surrender. It was all up with us, but we would sell our lives as dearly as we could. I pulled my gun. For a fraction of a second I fingered it fondly under the rug rapidly deciding where I should send my bullets with best effect. I had my finger on the trigger ready to raise my arm to fire when an officer dashed up. “Sorry for delaying you, gentlemen,” he shouted. This did not look like an ambush. I gently lowered my gun from view, and waited for his next words. He was the captain in charge of the party. “Two of the ‘beastly’ cars, you know, have broken down,” he explained, “and ’twas awfully unfortunate, don’t you know, but the traffic was almost completely blocked.” He apologised profusely for the delay, but he feared there was not enough room for our car to pass. “’twas jolly rotten,” but he thought we should have to get out and walk. By this time I had quite recovered my composure. I told him politely but firmly that we had an important business appointment to keep, and that any further delay might mean serious loss to us. Besides, I said, we had travelled far, and a long motor journey was not good for rheumatics, and we were far too tired to walk. I think he was really impressed by my protest. At that stage British officers regarded an Irishman who could travel in a motor car as a person of importance who might get a “question raised in the House,” if treated rudely. A year or two later I know what he would have said to any Irishman met on the road. He suddenly turned to his men, ordered three or four of them to drop their rifles and push us in our car for about two hundred yards till we had passed the broken-down lorries, and could take the middle of the road again. Never did I feel more inclined to laugh. Here was a section of the British Army actually going out of its way to save us the trouble of walking, while the same army was day and night searching the countryside for us. What a pretty heading it would have been for the _Morning Post_—“Wanted Gunmen aided and abetted by the British Army!”