The next place he came to was a biggish building in a part of the town that seemed to be immune from shelling. He walked boldly into it and climbed up to an attic in the roof. Here were more signs of German occupation, a window that faced towards our old line being heavily sandbagged, whilst behind it was a neatly constructed platform and rest. Hundreds of empty cartridge-cases scattered over the floor and a few loaded clips still lying on the platform showed that the sniper whose lair it had been had known good sport there. But even here my friend was not destined to rest undisturbed. Hardly had his eye taken in these details than a sound of hurried whispers below burst upon his ears, and a peremptory voice bade him "Descendez, vite!" "Qu'est-ce qu'il-y-a?" he replied. "Descendez, vite, vite, ou nous allons tirer!" Discretion was by far the better part of valour, so down he came, to be surrounded at once by a number of French soldiers armed with rifles and fixed bayonets. To his enquiries as to what they wanted, the only reply was, "Vous pouvez dire ce que vous voulez à M. le Commandant." The latter gentleman was very comfortably installed in a roomy cellar, and my friend was ushered into his presence with the significant words, "C'est un espion que nous avons attrapé en haut, mon Commandant, regardez ces machines-là qu'il porte!" The latter presumably in reference to the sextant, compass and other strange-looking impedimenta that he carried. It was an uncomfortable moment, but he managed to establish his identity, and mutual explanations followed, to the satisfaction of all parties, and my friend was told that he might make himself free of the place whenever he liked--"Mais, monsieur, je crains que vous avez trouvé en Loos que les français sont plus dangereux que les allemands. Mais, peste, vous êtes vraiment monté dans les Pylons! J'ose bien dire, comme disent les Anglais, que c'etait un endroit 'not sanitary'!" As a variant upon the hackneyed phrase "not healthy," I think that this is hard to beat.