But reminiscence fled when Sergeant Honk assumed the stage. Some one had told Honk he could sing, and—subtle flatterer—he had been believed. With the first wild squeaky note we were back, pell-mell in France. The notes rose and fell—but mostly fell; stumbling over and over one another in their vain endeavour to escape from Honk. Some maintained he sang by ear. Perhaps he did—he didn’t sing by mouth and chords long lost to human ken came whistling through his nose. The song was sad—but we laughed and laughed until we wept again. [Illustration: THE SONG WAS SAD—BUT WE LAUGHED AND LAUGHED UNTIL WE WEPT AGAIN] At the end of the first verse he seemed a little bewildered by the effect, but he had no advantage over us in that respect. At the end of the second verse, seeing his hearers in danger of apoplexy, he hesitated, and turning to Taylor, the pianist, muttered in an aside: "They downt understand h’English, them bloakes—this ayn’t a funny song—blimed if I downt quit right ’ere, and serve ’em jolly well right too!" And under a perfect storm of applause and cries of protest, Honk departed as he had come—anglewise. Tim and his brother then had a boxing-bout; and Cameron, who acted as Tim’s second, drew shrieks of joy from his French admirers, between rounds, as he filled his mouth with water and blew it like a penny shower into the perspiring breathless face of Tim. "A wee drap watter refraishes ye, Tim," he declared argumentatively after one of these showers. "Doze Pea-jammers tinks it’s funny," Tim puffed. "Let dem have a good time—dey ain’t see’d nuthin’ much lately—-an’ a good laff ’ull help dem digest dere ’patty de frog-grass!" *CHAPTER VII* It was my fate, or fortune, to be in charge of the advance party which was detailed to prepare for the opening of our hospital. Captain Burnham and I, with about forty N.C.O.s and men, and with two days’ rations, left Boulogne one cold November afternoon, a few days after the concert. After a slow train journey of three hours’ duration, we were deposited at the railway station of a fishing village on the coast. If Boulogne prides itself on its odour of dead fish, this little place must be an everlasting thorn in its side; for all the smells of that maladorous city fade into insignificance before the concentrated "incense" of the back streets of Etaples. We didn’t linger unnecessarily in the village, but pushed on at the "quick-march" and, crossing the bridge, were soon on the broad paved road which runs through _Le Touquet_ forest. It was just dusk, and snow had fallen to the depth of about two inches; the most we saw in two winters during our stay in that part of France. It was a crisp, cold evening, and the swinging pace of our march did much to keep us warm.