while our chauffeur repaired our first puncture. The emergency wheel
clapped on, we were soon en route again. My companion duly uncovered as
we passed the monument to the soldiers of the Franco-Prussian War,
almost hidden in a lovely chestnut grove, in the heart of the forest of
Hartennes.

On the outskirts of Soissons we came upon a squadron of the Ninth
Territorial Regiment, resting after the morning exercises. These
soldiers much resembled the "bushy-bearded" creatures whom I had seen
guarding the Eastern Railway, save that they were even more picturesque,
for most of them wore straw sombreros. As we passed the captain on his
horse, my companion lifted his hat and the officer replied with a
salute.

"A friend of yours?" I ventured.

"No. Never saw him before."

"But you bowed, I thought."

"Certainly. He's an officer on duty in time of war, and all civilians
owe him that courtesy."

I liked that and fancied it were old-time urbanity, though often since I
have seen it proved that the custom is not obsolete.

A little further on we came to a very jolly squadron, the cooks, who
were peeling fresh vegetables and pouring them into immense
wash-boilers, which, when filled, two privates seized by the handles and
carried towards a big barracks some hundred yards distant.