But the return of the _Gefangener_ was altogether different. He had plenty of time in which to collect his thoughts, the return to civilised life was marked by slow gradations. At Metz he could get a decent bath, at Nancy a decent dinner. By the time he had reached Boulogne, his odyssey had assumed the most prosaic proportions. There is no doubt about it, for those who had been prisoners only a few months the leave boat was infinitely more exciting. But there were, of course, compensations. After having lived on tinned meats for eight months, it was a thrilling experience to find a menu that comprised fried sole and grouse, Brussel sprouts and iced grapes. Over my first dinner I took three hours. It was a gluttonous but on the whole a natural exhibition. It also saved us from a further period of confinement. For when we arrived at Nancy one of the first pieces of intelligence we received, was the news that it would not be possible to provide a train for us within five days. To many ardent spirits this was a sad blow, and one or two adventurers decided that whatever the rest might do, they themselves were not going to wait five days “for any blooming train,” and among these rebels I had rather naturally numbered myself. During the afternoon I went down to the station with Barron, the constant companion of my peradventures, and interviewed the railway authorities. Now there is only one way to deal with a military policeman; it is no good trying to dodge him. He knows that trick too well. The frontal assault is the one road to success. We walked straight up to him. “Corporal,” I said, “we’re going to Paris.” “Very good, Sir; you’ve got your movement order made out, I suppose.” “No, Corporal, I’m afraid I haven’t,” I confessed. He grunted. “That makes it a bit awkward, Sir; you see, I have got orders, Sir, to....” At this juncture a five-franc note changed hands. “But, Sir, of course it could be managed, I expect, if you’re down at ten minutes to eleven. Well, Sir, I’ll see what I can do.” That was all right; and feeling ourselves rather dogs, we made our way back to the Stanislas and had a game of billiards. At half-past six we sat down to a long, carefully selected dinner and two bottles of champagne; and as the evening progressed a delightful warmth and languor came over us. A bed with a spring mattress seemed more than ever desirable. “It won’t be a very comfortable journey,” hazarded my companion. “It will take a good ten hours.” “Yes,” I said. “It really seems rather a sweat....” “Old man,” I said sternly, “I’ve paid that corporal five francs, and on my mother’s side I’m Scots.” And we returned to our attack on the omelette. Half an hour passed, and the world of languor grew even fairer. Effort then appeared almost criminal. Surely the supreme delight of life lay in this slow puffing at a cigarette. The idea of our all-night journey became increasingly abhorrent.