unable to say, but against me personally that was the plan of
campaign it determined upon and carried out with a success that was
astonishing, even to myself.

I found it utterly impossible to escape from the Belgian Army. I
made a point of choosing the quietest and most unlikely streets, I
chose all hours--early in the morning, in the afternoon, late in the
evening. There were moments of wild exaltation when I imagined I had
given it the slip. I could not see it anywhere, I could not hear it.

"Now," said I to myself, "now for five minutes' peace and quiet."

I had been doing it injustice: it had been working round me.
Approaching the next corner, I would hear the tattoo of its drum.
Before I had gone another quarter of a mile it would be in full
pursuit of me. I would jump upon a tram, and travel for miles.
Then, thinking I had shaken it off, I would alight and proceed upon
my walk. Five minutes later another detachment would be upon my
heels. I would slink home, the Belgian Army pursuing me with its
exultant tattoo. Vanquished, shamed, my insular pride for ever
vanished, I would creep up into my room and close the door. The
victorious Belgian Army would then march back to barracks.

If only it had followed me with a band: I like a band. I can loaf
against a post, listening to a band with anyone. I should not have
minded so much had it come after me with a band. But the Belgian
Army, apparently, doesn't run to a band. It has nothing but this
drum. It has not even a real drum--not what I call a drum. It is a
little boy's drum, the sort of thing I used to play myself at one
time, until people took it away from me, and threatened that if they