* * * * *

AN ERROR IN TACTICS.

In the heart of the Forêt de Roumare there is a spot called Rond du
Chêne à Leu, where eight paths meet. Why they choose to meet there,
unless it is for company, one can't imagine. The fact that there is not
an estaminet within five kilometres nullifies its value as a military
objective. Therefore, having been decoyed thither by a plausible
guide-book, it was with surprise that I beheld an ancient representative
of the British Army smoking his pipe with the air of having been in
possession for centuries.

"Bit lonely here," I said.

"Rumble's Moor on a wet Friday's busy to it," he said emphatically. "Is
it reet the War's over?"

"Yes."

He puffed his pipe for a few minutes while the information soaked in.

"Who won?"

"The Peace Conference haven't decided yet."

Conversation languished until I remembered the guide-book.

"According to tradition," I said, "it was at this identical spot that