I have not preserved my life (often at infinite risk) through four and
a-half years of high-pressure warfare to be mauled to death by a tin
car at the finish. Not I. I got out. As I trundled into the gutter I
saw the car take the parapet in its stride, describe a graceful
curve in the blue, and plunge downwards out of sight. The child and
I reached the parapet together and peered over. Seventy feet below us
the waters of the river spouted for a moment as with the force of some
violent submarine explosion and then subsided. A patch of oil came
floating to the surface, accompanied by my breeches and British warm.

The child looked at me, his eyes goggling with horror. "They won't
'alf fry my liver for this, they won't, not 'alf," he gasped huskily.

I laid a kindly hand upon his shoulder. "Not they, my lad; I'll see
to that. Listen. You have that slip entitling you to immediate
demobilisation?" He nodded, wondering. "Then demobilise yourself
_now_, at once, instantly!" I cried. "Run like blazes to Calais,
Boulogne, Havre, Marseilles--anywhere you like; only run, you little
devil, run!"

"But you, Sir?" he stuttered.

"Oh, don't worry about me," I smiled; "I shall be _quite_ all right.
I'm going to lay all the blame on you."

He shot one scared glance, at me, then, picking up the skirts of his
dressing-gown, scampered off down the road as fast as his ammunition
boots would let him, never looking back.

PATLANDER.