Yesterday morning, a freckled child, dripping oil and perspiration and clad in a sort of canvas dressing-gown, stumbled into "Remounts" (or "Demounts," as we should more properly call ourselves nowadays) and presented me with a slip of paper which entitled him, the bearer, to immediate demobilisation on pivotal grounds. I handed it back to him, explaining that he had come to the wrong shop--unless he were a horse, of course. If he were and could provide his own nosebag, head-stall and Army Form 1640, testifying that he was guiltless of mange, ophthalmia or epizootic lymphangitis, I would do what I could for him. He stared at me for a moment, then at the slip, then, murmuring something about the mistake being his, began to feel in the numerous pouches of his dressing-gown, bringing to light the following items:-- (1) A. spanner. (2) Some attenuated cigarettes. (3) A picture-postcard fashioned in silk, with tropical birds and flowers, clasped hands, crossed Union Jacks and the legend "TRUE LOVE" embroidered thereon. (4) A handful of cotton waste. (5) Some brandy-balls. (6) An oil-can. (7) The ace of spades. (8) The portrait (tin-type) of a lady, inscribed "With kind regards from Lizzie." (9) A stick of chewing gum. (10) A mouse (defunct). (11) A second slip of paper. He grunted with satisfaction, replaced his treasures carefully in the pouches and handed the last-named item to me. It read to the effect that both he and his car were at my disposal for the day. I wriggled into a coat and followed him out to where his chariot awaited us. I never pretended to be a judge of motor vehicles, but it does not need an expert to detect a Drift when he sees one; they have a leggy, herring-gutted appearance all their own. Where it was not dented in it bulged out; most of those little knick-knacks that really nice cars have were missing, and its complexion had peeled off in erratic designs such as Royal Academicians used to smear on transports to make U-Boaters imagine they were seeing things they shouldn't and lead better lives. I did not like the looks of the thing from the first, and my early impressions did not improve when, as we bumped off the drive on to the _pavé_, the screen suddenly detached itself from its perch and flopped into our laps. However, the car put in some fast work between our château gates and the _estaminet_ of the "Rising Sun" (a distance of fully two hundred yards), and my hopes soared several points. From the _estaminet_ of the "Rising Sun" to the village of Bailleul-aux-Hondains the road wriggles down-hill in two sharp hair-pin bends. The car flung itself over the edge of the hill and plunged headlong for the first of these. "Put on the brakes!" I shouted. The child did some kicking and hauling with his feet and hands which made no impression whatever on the car. "Put on the brakes, damme!" I yelled. The child rolled the whites of his eyes towards me and announced briefly, "Brake's broke."