"If you’re ever held up by a French sentry, you must always be _pressé_—it’s a great word! If you’re only _pressé_ enough you can get anywhere in France." There wasn’t another vehicle but ours upon that splendid highway, and we bowled along at tremendous speed through green fertile valleys and through leafless forests, rounding the curve which runs to the southeast from Calais and skimming along the crest of a low smooth mountain for mile upon mile. We soon were on the road to St. Omer. From time to time the noisy whir of an aeroplane overhead helped us to realise that we were gradually drawing nearer to the real battle line, and once on looking up we could see the giant human bird at a great height, sailing above us. He came lower, so that we were able to see the pilot distinctly, and directed his course straight above the road. At the time we were travelling about fifty miles an hour, but he passed us as though we had been standing still—a moment later he became a mere speck in the distance, then faded into the mist beyond. As we approached closer to the front we had expected to find the towns deserted except by troops. In this we were agreeably disappointed. As we entered St. Omer we found motors and waggons by the hundreds coming and going in a busy rush; every store was open too, and business was thriving with a thrift unknown before the war. Women and children, soldiers and civilians, crowded the busy streets, and the hum of industry was heard on every hand. Here not many miles from the trenches, we could see again the undaunted confidence of France, implicit reliance upon her troops, unswerving loyalty to her ideals—unutterable contempt for the possibility of further German invasion. It was a revelation in faith and a stimulus to merit such whole-souled unbreakable trust. We had just drawn up at the curb in the city square when a big Rolls-Royce turned the corner and stopped close to us. It contained a man who wore the uniform of the British Red Cross Society, and who well matched the car in size; he descended and hastened over to our car. "Jack!" he cried delightedly, "old Jack Wellcombe; by George, I’m glad to see you!" As he spoke he shook Jack warmly by the hand. "You and your friends must come over to the ’Bachelor’s Own’ with me." Jack performed the round of introductions, and Mr. Harman, who proved to be an American from Texas, reiterated that we must come and dine with him. "Thanks, Harman, old chap; we really must get along, we have to make Poperinghe to-night," Jack protested; but his American friend refused to take "no" for an answer.