Andrews could not keep his eyes off the men's faces. They went from one to the other, in spite of him. Now and then, for an instant, he caught a glimpse of the yellow and brown squares of the wall paper and the bar with a few empty bottles behind it. He tried to count the bottles; “one, two, three...” but he was staring in the lustreless grey eyes of Bill Huggis, who lay back in his chair, blowing smoke out of his nose, now and then reaching for the cognac bottle, all the while humming faintly, under his breath: “It's the smile that makes you happy, It's the smile that makes you sad.” Handsome sat with his elbows on the table, and his chin in his beefy hands. His face was flushed crimson, but the skin was softly moulded, like a woman's. The light in the room was beginning to grow grey. Handsome and Bill Huggis stood up. A young officer, with clearly-marked features and a campaign hat worn a little on one side, came in, stood with his feet wide apart in the middle of the floor. Andrews went up to him. “I'm in the Sorbonne Detachment, Lieutenant, stationed in Paris.” “Don't you know enough to salute?” said the officer, looking him up and down. “One of you men teach him to salute,” he said slowly. Handsome made a step towards Andrews and hit him with his fist between the eyes. There was a flash of light and the room swung round, and there was a splitting crash as his head struck the floor. He got to his feet. The fist hit him in the same place, blinding him, the three figures and the bright oblong of the window swung round. A chair crashed down with him, and a hard rap in the back of his skull brought momentary blackness. “That's enough, let him be,” he heard a voice far away at the end of a black tunnel. A great weight seemed to be holding him down as he struggled to get up, blinded by tears and blood. Rending pains darted like arrows through his head. There were handcuffs on his wrists. “Git up,” snarled a voice. He got to his feet, faint light came through the streaming tears in his eyes. His forehead flamed as if hot coals were being pressed against it. “Prisoner, attention!” shouted the officer's voice. “March!” Automatically, Andrews lifted one foot and then the other. He felt in his face the cool air of the street. On either side of him were the hard steps of the M. P.'s. Within him a nightmare voice was shrieking, shrieking. PART SIX: UNDER THE WHEELS I