Finally we closed Pong, and, feeling extremely self-conscious and unpleasantly hot, I b.u.t.toned my overcoat about me and set out for Argeles.

The memory of that walk will stay with me till I die.

If, a few hours before, I had been satisfied that 'Incroyables' seldom sat down, I was soon in possession of most convincing evidence that, come what might, they never did more than stroll. The pantaloons, indeed, curtailed every pace I took. It also became painfully obvious that their 'foot-joy' was intended for use only upon tiled pavements or parquet, and since the surface of the road to Argeles was bearing a closer resemblance to the bed of a torrent, I suffered accordingly.

What service their headgear in any conceivable circ.u.mstances could have rendered, I cannot pretend to say. As a protection from the rays of the sun, it was singularly futile....

Had I been wearing flannels, I should have been sweltering in a quarter of an hour. Dressed as I was, I was streaming with honest sweat in less than five minutes.... Before I had covered half a mile I tore off my overcoat and flung it behind a wall.

My reception at the first hamlet I reached was hardly promising.

The honour of appreciating my presence before anyone else fell to a pair of bullocks attached to a wain piled high with wood and proceeding slowly in the direction of Lourdes.

Had they perceived an apparition shaking a b.l.o.o.d.y goad, they could not have acted with more concerted or devastating rapidity.

In the twinkling of an eye they had made a complete _volte-face_, the waggon was lying on its side across the fairway, and its burden of logs had been distributed with a dull crash upon about a square perch of cobbles.

Had I announced my coming by tuck of drum, I could not have attracted more instant and faithful attention.

Before the explosion of agony with which the driver--till then walking, as usual, some thirty paces in rear--had greeted the catastrophe, had turned into a roaring torrent of abuse, every man, woman, and child within earshot came clattering upon the scene.

For a moment, standing to one side beneath the shelter of a flight of steps, I escaped notice. It was at least appropriate that the luckless waggoner should have been the first to perceive me....

At the actual moment of observation he was at once indicating the disposition of his wood with a gesture charged with the savage despair of a barbaric age and letting out a screech which threatened to curdle the blood.

The gesture collapsed. The screech died on his lips.

With dropped jaw and bulging eyes, the fellow backed to the wall....

When I stepped forward, he put the waggon between us.

I never remember so poignant a silence.

Beneath the merciless scrutiny of those forty pairs of eyes I seemed to touch the very bottom of abashment.

Then I lifted my ridiculous hat and cleared my throat.

"Good day," I said cheerfully, speaking in French. "I'm on my way back from a ball--a fancy-dress ball--and my car has run out of petrol. I want to hire a cart to go to Argeles."

If I had said I wanted to hire a steam-yacht, my simple statement could not have been more apathetically received....

Happily, for some un.o.bvious reason, no one seemed to a.s.sociate me with the bullocks' waywardness, but it took me ten minutes' cajolery to elicit the address of a peasant who might hire me a cart.

At last I was told his lodging and pointed the way.

Such direction proved supererogatory, first, because we all moved off together, and, secondly, because it subsequently transpired that the gentleman whom I was seeking was already present. But that is France.

Upon arrival at his house my friend stepped out of the ruck and, with the utmost composure, asked if it was true that I was desiring to be driven to Argeles. Controlling my indignation, I replied with equal gravity that such was my urgent ambition. Taking a wrist-watch from my pocket, I added that upon reaching a garage at Argeles, I would deduct the time we had taken from half an hour and cheerfully give him a franc for every minute that was left.

I can only suppose that so novel a method of payment aroused his suspicion.

Be that as it may, with an apologetic bow, the fellow requested to see the colour of my money.

Then and then only did I remember that I had not a bra.s.s farthing upon my person.

What was worse, I felt pretty sure that Adele and Berry were equally penniless...

My exit from that village I try to forget.

I found that the waters of humiliation were deeper than I could have believed. They seemed, in fact, bottomless.

It is, perhaps, unnecessary to say that I returned by the way I had come. I had had enough of the road to Argeles. My one idea was to rejoin Adele and Berry and to sit down in the car. Mentally and physically I was weary to death. I craved to set my back against the b.u.t.tress of company in this misfortune, and I was mad to sit down.

Compared with standing any longer upon my feet, the contingency of dislocation became positively attractive....

The first thing that met my eyes, as I limped round the last of the bends, was the bonnet of a dilapidated touring car.

I could have thrown up my rotten hat.

A few feet further from Lourdes than Pong himself was an aged grey French car. Standing in the white road between the two was a strapping figure in pale pink georgette and a large Leghorn hat, apparently arguing with three blue-covered mechanics. From Pong's off-side window the conical hat and extravagant ruff of 'Pierrette' were protruding excitedly.

My companions' relief to see me again was unfeigned.

As I came up, Adele gave a whimper of delight, and a moment later she was pouring her tale into my ears.

"You hadn't been gone long when these people came by. We stopped them, of course, and----"

"One moment," said I. "Have they got any petrol?"

"Listen," said Berry. "Four _bidons_ of what they had are in our tank.

It was when they were in, that we found we hadn't a bean. That didn't matter. The gents were perfectly happy to take my address. A pencil was produced--we had nothing, of course--and I started to write it all down on the edge of yesterday's _Le Temps_. They all looked over my shoulder. As I was writing, I _felt_ their manner change. I stopped and looked round. _The fools were staring at me as if I were risen from the dead_. That mayn't surprise you, but it did me, because we'd got through that phase. For a moment we looked at one another. Then one picked up the paper and took off his hat. 'It is unnecessary,' he said, 'for _Monsieur_ to give us his name. We know it perfectly.' The others nodded agreement. I tell you, I thought they'd gone mad...."

He pushed his hat back from his eyes and sat down on the step.

"But--but what's the trouble?" I gasped.

Berry threw out his hands.

"Haven't you got it?" he said. "_They think I'm Sycamore Tight._"

I soon perceived the vanity of argument.

With my brother-in-law in the hand and fifty thousand francs in the bush, the three mechanics were inexorable.

They accepted my statements; they saw my point of view; they uncovered; they bowed; they laughed when I laughed; they admitted the possibility, nay, likelihood of a mistake; they deplored the inconvenience we were suffering. But, politely and firmly, they insisted that Berry should enter their car and accompany them to Lourdes.

That this their demand should be met was not to be thought of.

Adele and I could not desert Berry; from the police at Lourdes nothing was to be expected but suspicion, hostility, and maddeningly officious delays; Berry's eventual release would only be obtained at a cost of such publicity as made my head swim.