"No, I think not," Jack reassured him; "it’s customary for them to shell any good road in the hope of picking off a convoy." "It’s a damned uncomfortable custom," Reggy returned earnestly, "and I could forgive them for not observing it for the next ten minutes." The chauffeur, who had stopped the car dead by using the emergency brake, now released it, and we started forward again. But we had considerable difficulty in navigating the ditch on the side of what had been the road. We had just moved in time, for a second shell dropped where we had been a moment since, and tore the opposite side of the road away. "Being between two lines of artillery is a little too much like battledore and shuttlecock," I remarked to Reggy, "with all the odds against the shuttlecock." "Object to word ’battledore,’" Reggy retorted; "it’s too frivolous and pun-like for the present dangerous occasion." We were now making haste towards a small village a few miles ahead, and we were not sorry as we passed into the poor shelter its brick houses afforded. As long as we were on the open road it was quite impossible to rid oneself of the feeling that the car was in full view of the German gunners. The streets of this dirty little village were filled with British Tommies, who, still covered with the mud from the trenches, were as care-free and happy as were those fifty miles from the front. They smoked and chatted together in little groups at the entrance or in the courtyards of the miserable hotels, one at least of which seemed to be on every block. As we drew up the colonel enquired of a sentry: "Can you tell me where the ’Princess Patricias’ are billeted?" We had been informed that this famous battalion, which had reached France just six weeks after us, was somewhere in this neighbourhood. To discover their whereabouts was the real object of our journey. The sentry made reply: "I believe, sir, there is a battalion of that naime ’ere somew’eres. Hi, Bill!" he called to another Tommy, who was leaning against a near-by door-post; "w’ere is them Canydians wot wos ’ere t’other day?" "Bill" banked his cigarette by pressing it against the wall and came over on the double to the side of our car. He saluted with that peculiar Jumping-Jack motion so much a part of the real Tommy, and ejaculated: "I ’eard they was at the next town, sir; it ayn’t far from ’ere, but it’s a funny naime—Runnin’-hell, er somethin’ like." "Would it be Reninghelst?" Jack enquired. "Ay—that’s it, sir; I knowed they was ’hell’ in it somew’eres." "Just since the ’Canydians’ came, I’ll wager?" Reggy interjected mischievously. The Tommy grinned approval of this jest, and volunteered to show us the direction. He stood on the running board of the car and saw that we got started on the right road. "Straight ahead now, sir," he said, as he saluted and sprang down.