McTurtle hates heights, and in his cloistered Salonica life he had
never realised that the trains of Greece ran about like mice upon a
cornice. Four hundred precipitous feet yawned beneath his horrified
eyes, and at his first involuntary gasp the teeth he owed to art and
not to nature left him and swooped like a hawk upon a distant flock of
sheep. The shepherd, a simple rustic unfamiliar with modern dentistry,
endeavoured to sell them subsequently to a Y.M.C.A. archaeologist as
genuine antiques.

At that moment the train stopped. McTurtle thought that his loss had
been noticed, but as he made his way to the kit-truck for some more
teeth he discovered that a landslide barred the way. The train backed
cautiously for ten minutes and stopped again. Another landslide. The
leave-party remained stationary for thirty hours, eating the rations
thoughtfully provided for such a contingency.

In due course McTurtle found himself on the front seat of a motor
lorry breasting the spurs of Mt. Parnassus. The dizziness of his path
was invisible to him, for in a Grecian summer you can see nothing out
of motor vehicles but dust.

But when the lorry reached the summit of the pass the sea-breeze from
the Gulf of Corinth cleared the air and he saw for the first time the
peaks on one side and the gulfs on the other, with the road writhing
down canyons and gorges like a demoniac corkscrew.

"Fine view, Sir," remarked the driver.

McTurtle gulped assent. "Bit dangerous, 'o course," continued the