But long ere this Thomas Atkins was fed up with souvenir-hunters, and one recalls a _Punch_ picture which showed a weary and wounded soldier sitting by the roadside with what remained of his kit and arms. "'Souvenir' is it you want?" he remarks in reply to a little urchin who is bleating the hateful word at him. "Here, you can take the ---- lot." And he pitches his rifle and kit at the youngster's head. The officers and men who came up by road must have had a very cheery time in the various towns where they were billeted. The route lay, I believe, by way of Amiens, and so up through St. Quentin and Bohain to Le Cateau. Hardly was there a hint of war in all that lovely country-side. What war could ever touch those glowing cornfields, those orchards heavy with plum and apple, the stately châteaux or dim cloisters of mediæval church or convent? As little can we conceive our fragrant villages of Kent or Surrey blasted and devastated by poisonous shells. Very, very few men were to be seen anywhere; only Government officials and others over military age. Such guards or sentries as were posted were somewhat decrepit-looking Territorials, with arms and accoutrements which looked as if they had done good service in 1870. But they made up for their deficiencies in other respects by an excess of zeal in carrying out imaginary orders. Their method of challenging, in particular, had the merit of simplicity and, at the same time, involved no undue straining of the vocal powers. It was merely the thrusting of a rifle-barrel into the face or chest of the passer-by. And when there is a very shaky hand on the trigger you don't lose much time in getting out your credentials. One of these men caused much excitement one evening by holding up and clapping into the guardroom every single individual who attempted to pass him. He was performing sentry duty across a certain main road. This went on for a couple of hours, and the guardroom was becoming uncomfortably crowded with a very miscellaneous assortment of travellers. In fact, when a particularly plump matron, carrying a basket of particularly evil-smelling cheeses, was incontinently thrust in, to fall heavily across the toes of an already irate railway porter, there was very nearly a riot. At length a gilded Staff officer came along. He too was held up. But this time the sentry met his match. The officer demanded to see the N.C.O. of the guard. Whereupon the sentry, who was really somewhat the worse for drink, fell down upon his knees in the road, and with salty tears coursing down his cheeks piteously besought the officer to allow him to go home and get his supper. But French Territorials did their "bit" gallantly enough a few days later, away on the British left. Old reservists as they were, they hung on splendidly at Tournai, and, led by de Villaret, fought gallantly against overwhelming numbers until they were surrounded, killed, or captured.