sun had risen.

Our day's march was to Dour, in Belgium, and for us a bad day's march it
was. My job was to keep touch with the 14th Brigade, which was advancing
along a parallel road to the west.[5] That meant riding four or five
miles across rough country roads, endeavouring to time myself so as to
reach the 14th column just when the S.O. was passing, then back again to
the Division, riding up and down the column until I found our captain.
In the course of my riding that day I knocked down "a civvy" in Dour,
and bent a foot-rest endeavouring to avoid a major, but that was all in
the day's work.

The Signal Office was first established patriarchally with a table by
the roadside, and thence I made my last journey that day to the 14th. I
found them in a village under the most embarrassing attentions. As for
myself, while I was waiting, a curé photographed me, a woman rushed out
and washed my face, and children crowded up to me, presenting me with
chocolate and cigars, fruit and eggs, until my haversack was practically
bursting.

When I returned I found the S.O. had shifted to the station of Dour. We
were given the waiting-room, which we made comfortable with straw.
Opposite the station was a hotel where the Staff lived. It was managed
by a curiously upright old man in a threadbare frock-coat, bright check
trousers, and carpet slippers. Nadine, his pretty daughter, was
tremulously eager to make us comfortable, and the two days we were at
Dour we hung round the hotel, sandwiching omelettes and drink between
our despatches.

[Illustration: ROUND MONS]