Territorial Regiment--not under arms but _au repos_. The men were
seated in front of the barracks reading the papers or idly smoking their
pipes, and all yearning for "something to do." Their wish, I fear, has
been more than satisfied.

Start number two proved successful and we sped along very comfortably
until we hit that long cobbled road. The day was exceedingly warm, the
stones sun-baked, and after the first mile or so I saw Huberson looking
nervously at his fore wheel. His anxiety was well founded, for half a
minute later, whizz!--I could feel the rubber splitting!

We stopped and all climbed out.

"It's all up!" he exclaimed. "Not one--but two tires are burst, and the
shoe of the emergency wheel is flapping like an old dirty rag!"

"Now, in my time--" began the alderman.

"Never mind about your time, old man. If you want to get back to Oulchy
and that mowing machine before Christmas, you've got to pitch in and
help," cut in Huberson, whose nerves could no longer stand the strain.
Our friend took the hint and began stripping off his coat. We were
eight miles from Soissons, on the upgrade of a cobbled road, full in the
sun. It was three P. M. on a stifling August day!

The men must have spent an hour trying to make impossible repairs--they
knew it was no use walking back to Soissons where aid had already been
refused, and it was evident from the condition of the tubes that there
was no hope of mending them.