road, broken to bits by military traffic, had stiffened into black grease.  Round a bend of the road we skidded alarmingly.  Marigold has a theory that in summer time a shirt next the skin is the only wear for humans and square-tread tyres the only wear for motor-cars.  With some acerbity I pointed out the futility of his proposition.  With the blandness of superior wisdom he assured me that we were perfectly safe.  You can’t knock into the head of an artilleryman who has been trained to hang on to a limber by the friction of his trousers, that there can be any danger in the luxurious seat of a motor-car.

There is a good straight half mile of the Godbury Road which is known in the locality as “The Gut.”  It is sunken and very narrow, being flanked on one side by the railway embankment, and on the other by the grounds of Godbury Chase.  A most desolate bit of road, half overhung by trees and oozing with all the moisture of the country-side.  On this day it was the wettest, slimiest bit of road in England.  We had almost reached the end of it, when it entered the head of a stray puppy dog to pause in the act of crossing and sit down in the middle and hunt for fleas.  To spare the abominable mongrel, Marigold made a sudden swerve.  Of course the car skidded.  It skidded all over the place, as if it were drunk, and, aided by Marigold, described a series of ghastly half-circles.  At last he performed various convulsive feats of jugglery, with the result that the car, which was nosing steadily for the ditch, came to a stand-still.  Then Marigold informed me in unemotional tones that the steering gear had gone.

“It’s all the fault of that there dog,” said he, twisting his head so as to glare at the little beast, who, after a yelp and a bound, had calmly recaptured his position and resumed his interrupted occupation.

“It’s all the fault of that there Marigold,” I retorted, “who can’t see the sense of using studded tyres on a greasy surface.  What’s to be done now?”

Marigold thrust his hand beneath his wig and scratched his head.  He didn’t exactly know.  He got out and stared intently at the car.  If mind could have triumphed over matter, the steering gear would have become disfractured.  But the good Marigold’s mind was not powerful enough.  He gave up the contest and looked at me and the situation.  There we were, broadside on to the narrow road, and only manhandling could bring us round to a position of safety by the side.  He was for trying it there and then; but I objected, having no desire to be slithered into the ditch.

“I would just as soon,” said I, “ride a giraffe shod with roller skates.”

He didn’t even smile.  He turned his one reproachful eye on me.  What was to be done?  I told him.  We must wait for assistance.  When I had been transferred into the vehicle of a passing Samaritan, it was time enough for the manhandling.

Fate brought the Samaritan very quickly.  A car coming from Godbury tooted violently, then slowed down, stopped, and from it jumped Leonard Boyce.  As he was to rescue me from a position of peculiar helplessness, I regarded his great khaki-clad figure as that of a ministering angel.  I beamed on him.