times more difficult to find the village and block the roads. There was
nothing for it but to cut the boots, so, unwrapping a fresh Gillette
blade, he made a large V-shaped gash in the top part of each. It was
annoying to have to spoil good boots, and in addition his feet would get
wet far sooner than hitherto.

All superfluous articles of weight had long since been thrown away, and
consequently he had nothing except matches with which to read his map in
the dark and windy night. The difficulty was increased by the fact that
the way lay across small tracks which were almost impossible to
distinguish, but eventually, more by luck than judgment, he brought his
men into a village. Was it Villiers? It took him some time to find out.
There were plenty of people in the village street, but the Subaltern
could not get coherent speech out of any one of them. Fear makes an
uneducated Englishman suspicious, quickwitted and surly. It drives the
French peasant absolutely mad. That village street seemed to have less
sense, less fortitude, less coolness than a duck-run invaded by a
terrier. The Subaltern caught a man by the arm and pushed him into a
doorway.

"Qu'est-ce que c'est, le nom de cette village?" he said, with as much
insistence and coolness as he could muster. The poor fellow broke into a
tirade in which his desire to cut German throats, his peculiarly
unfortunate circumstances, and his wish to get away literally tripped
over each other.

"Qu'est-ce que c'est, le nom de cette village?" Followed a flood of
words apparently about the village. A third time. "Qu'est-ce que c'est,
le nom de cette village?" At last: "Ah, M'sieur, Villiers," with an air
of surprise, as if he thought the Subaltern had known all the time, and