"Quick!" I shrieked, grabbing the reins and pulling our cart full into the middle of the road. "They've got to take me and the boy to Melun!" Seeing his deliverance so near, my old friend obeyed at once. The motor, stupefied by our actions, slowed down. "Get out of the way!" yelled the chauffeur. "Are you crazy! Out or I'll run you down!" "Never! Look here. I don't care where you're bound for, but you've got to make room for me and a dying man in your machine. It's Melun--or nothing!" "Wounded! Heaven, the Germans! We're caught! Go on, quick, quick, I say!" shrieked the woman. The chauffeur made a movement as though to skid past us. "No, you don't," I said, once again producing my trusty Browning. The woman hid her face in her hands. "Now then, either you can make room for us or I'll blow off your tires and you'll have to get down and walk like all the rest of us!" My gray-headed driver was jubilant. "That's right, Madame, you've hit it!" he encouraged. There just wasn't any choice. The chauffeur got down and began piling the gasoline cans behind on the back seat to one side. Then, each of us grabbing a corner of the mattress, we hoisted the sufferer onto the machine, covering him with a sheet. Try as we would, though, we could not get him to bend his knees, and in consequence all during the trip the poor chauffeur received constant kicks from the agonized soul we were rushing towards surgical aid. "Now then," I said, turning to my old driver. "Thank you for your cart, and bon voyage to Coulommiers. George, tell my people to meet me in Melun." And hatless, coatless, with but one golden louis in my pocket (I had confided my bag to Julie when the wounded man had arrived at Jouy), I started on our record-breaking trip to Melun. VII It was an exciting trip, that race for life and death--for every moment I knew my wounded boy was growing weaker, and every convulsive kick meant the disappearance of so much life blood. During the numerous adventures which befell us between the time we left Jouy-le-Chatel and our encountering the motor, my hypodermic needle had received such violent treatment that it refused service. So when we turned into Mormont at top speed, I was obliged to ask my driver to slow down and inquire for a doctor. We were directed by a couple of gaping women on the borders of the little city, who didn't quite understand our mission. However, they must have been soon enlightened, for as we crossed the public square the British Red Cross ambulances were pouring in and lining up in battle array. Behind them came a steady stream of ammunition wagons, both horse and motor trucks, and from Mormont to Melun the line was unbroken. The doctor was absent, but his wife willingly filled his place and with new hope dawning we backed out of the yard and sped southward.