Meanwhile the exhibition chop went on. The French woodsmen were digging
at the roots of their trees with long, ancient axes, more like a cold
chisel than a modern axe. "I think I could do as well with a knife and
fork," said one great kindly Australian as he watched with a smile.

But, to my mind, that exhibition was the most impressive of all. For
every one of those who took part in it was either an old man or a slip
of a slender boy.




CHAPTER X

IDENTIFIED

_France, June 28th._


It was about three months ago, more or less. The German observer,
crouched up in the platform behind the trunk of a tree, or in a chimney
with a loose brick in it--in a part of the world where the country
cottages, peeping over the dog-rose hedges, have more broken bricks in
them than whole ones--saw down a distant lane several men in strange
hats. The telescope wobbled a bit, and in the early light all objects in
the landscape took on much the same grey colour.

The observer rubbed his red eyes and peered again. Down the white streak
winding across a distant green field were coming a couple more of these