appearance, in his pose, which suggested a man of better social
standing than his occupation warranted.

"Ex-officer," thought Merriman as his gaze passed on to the lorry
behind. It was painted a dirty green, and was empty except for a
single heavy casting, evidently part of some large and massive
machine. On the side of the deck was a brass plate bearing the
words in English "The Landes Pit-Prop Syndicate, No. 4." Merriman
was somewhat surprised to see a nameplate in his own language in
so unexpected a quarter, but the matter really did not interest
him and he soon dismissed it from his mind.

The machine chuffed ponderously past, and Merriman, by now rested,
turned to restart his bicycle. But his troubles for the day were
not over. On the ground below his tank was a stain, and even as
he looked, a drop fell from the carburetor feed pipe, followed by
a second and a third.

He bent down to examine, and speedily found the cause of the trouble.
The feed pipe was connected to the bottom of the tank by a union,
and the nut, working slack, had allowed a small but steady leak.
He tightened the nut and turned to measure the petrol in the tank.
A glance showed him that a mere drain only remained.

"Curse it all," he muttered, "that's the second time that confounded
nut has left me in the soup."

His position was a trifle awkward. He was still some twenty-five
kilometers from Bordeaux, and his machine would not carry him more
than perhaps two. Of course, he could stop the first car that