the staircase wasn't done by no shell. The ole girl got that through
a skid up against a lamp-post, one wet Saturday night in the Vauxhall
Bridge Road. Dangerous place, London!"

We rattle through a brave little town, which is "carrying on" in the
face of paralysed trade and periodical shelling. Soldiers abound. All
are muddy, but some are muddier than others. The latter are going up
to the trenches, the former are coming back. Upon the walls, here and
there, we notice a gay poster advertising an entertainment organised
by certain Divisional troops, which is to be given nightly throughout
the week. At the foot of the bill is printed in large capitals, A
HOOGE SUCCESS! We should like to send a copy of that plucky document
to Brother Boche. He would not understand it, but it would annoy him
greatly.

Now we leave the town behind, and quicken up along the open road--an
interminable ribbon of _pavé_, absolutely straight, and bordered upon
either side by what was once macadam, but is now a quagmire a foot
deep. Occasionally there is a warning cry of "Wire!" and the outside
fares hurriedly bow from the waist, in order to avoid having their
throats cut by a telephone wire--"Gunners for a dollar!" surmises
a strangled voice--tightly stretched across the road between two
poplars. Occasionally, too, that indefatigable humorist, Ernie,
directs his course beneath some low-spreading branches, through which
the upper part of the bus crashes remorselessly, while the passengers,
lying sardine-wise upon the roof uplift their voices in profane and
bloodthirsty chorus.

"Nothing like a bit o' fun on the way to the trenches, boys! It may be
the last you'll get!" is the only apology which Ernie offers.