on the benches along the wall, and standing about, in groups. As to
many of the French on the train this was their first sight of the men in
khaki, and as there were Scotch there in their kilts, there was a good
deal of excitement.

The train made a long stop in the effort to put more people into the
already overcrowded coaches. I leaned forward, wishing to get some
news, and the funny thing was that I could not think how to speak to
those boys in English. You may think that an affectation. It wasn't.
Finally I desperately sang out:--

"Hulloa, boys."

You should have seen them dash for the window. I suppose that their
native tongue sounded good to them so far from home.

"Where did you come from?" I asked.

"From up yonder--a place called La Fere," one of them replied.
"What regiment?" I asked.

"Any one else here speak English?" he questioned, running his eyes along
the faces thrust out of the windows.

I told him no one did.

"Well," he said, "we are all that is left of the North Irish Horse and a
regiment of Scotch Borderers."

"What are you doing here?"