I went to the hospital every day for fittings and at last the day arrived when I walked along holding on to handrails on each side and watching my “style” in a glass at the end of the room for the purpose.  My excitement knew no bounds!  It was a tedious business at first getting it to fit absolutely without paining and took some time.  I could hear the men practising walking in the adjoining room to the refrain of the “Broken Doll,” the words being: 

     “I only lost my leg a year ago. 
     I’ve got a ‘Rowley,’ now, I’d have you know. 
     I soon learnt what pain was, I thought I knew,
     But now my poor old leg is black, and red, white and blue! 
     The fitter said, ‘You’re walking very well,’
     I told him he could take his leg to ——­,
     But they tell me that some day I’ll walk right away,
     By George! and with my Rowley too!”

It was at least comforting to know that in time one would!

Half an hour’s fitting was enough to make the leg too tender for anything more that day, and I discovered to my joy that I was quite well able to drive a small car with one foot.  I was lent a sporting Morgan tri-car which did more to keep up my spirits than anything else.  The side brake was broken and somehow never got repaired, so the one foot had quite an exciting time.  It was anything but safe, but it did not matter.  One day, driving down the Portsmouth Road with a fellow-sufferer, a policeman waved his arms frantically in front of us.  “What’s happened,” I asked my friend, “are we supposed to stop?” “I’m afraid so,” he replied, “I should think we’ve been caught in a trap.”  (One gets into bad habits in France!)

As we drew up and the policeman saw the crutches, he said:  “I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t see your crutches, or I wouldn’t have pulled you up.”  The friend, who happened to be wearing his leg, said, “Oh, they aren’t mine, they belong to this lady.”  The good policeman was temporarily speechless.  When at last he got his wind he was full of concern.  “You don’t say, sir?  Well, I never did.  Don’t you take on, we won’t run you in, Miss,” he added consolingly, turning to me.  “I’ll fix the stop-watch man.”  I was beginning to enjoy myself immensely.  He regarded us for some minutes and made a round of the car.  “Well,” he said at last, “I call you a couple o’ sports!” We were convulsed!

At that moment the stop-watch man hurried up, looking very serious, and I watched the expression on his face change to one of concern as the policeman told him the tale.

“We won’t run you in, not us,” he declared stoutly, in concert with the policeman.

“What were we doing?” I asked, as he looked at his stop-watch.

“Thirty and a fraction over,” he replied.  “Only thirty!” I exclaimed, in a disappointed voice, “I thought we were doing at least forty!”

“First time anyone’s ever said that to me, Miss,” he said; “it’s usual for them to swear it wasn’t a mile above twenty!”