Even now we are making progress. Observe the platoon who are marching
into this farmyard. They are dead tired, and the sight of the
straw-filled barn is too much for some of them. They throw themselves
down anywhere, and are asleep in a moment. When they wake up--or more
likely, are wakened up--in an hour or two, they will be sorry. They
will be stiff and sore, and their feet will be a torment. Others, more
sensible, crowd round the pump, or dabble their abraded extremities in
one of the countless ditches with which this country is intersected.
Others again, of the more enterprising kind, repair to the house-door,
and inquire politely for "the wife." (They have long given up
inquiring for "the master." There is no master on this farm, or indeed
on any farm throughout the length and breadth of this great-hearted
land. Father and sons are all away, restoring the Bosche to his proper
place in the animal kingdom. We have seen no young or middle-aged man
out of uniform since we entered this district, save an occasional
imbecile or cripple.)
Presently "the wife" comes to the door, with a smile. She can afford
to smile now, for not so long ago her guests were Uhlans. Then begins
an elaborate pantomime. Private Tosh says "Bonjourr!" in husky
tones--last week he would have said "Hey, Bella!"--and proceeds to
wash his hands in invisible soap and water.
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