Francis Gordon’s idea of motoring up to London for Armistice Day—a pastime forbidden by the anti-joy-riding provisions of the Defence of the Realm Act—had entirely upset the Sunflowers-Tebbits routine. Usually, by breakfast-time, Peter had made his first inspection of the poultry houses; visited the milking-sheds; sped Sid Dyson on his way to Arlsfield Park (Peter, after endless finesse, had secured a timber-felling contract from the Colonel); discussed his round with ex-Corporal Hankins, who had one artificial leg, two merry blue eyes, and a mechanic’s passion for the delivery-van; and argued out at least one abstruse farming-problem with Harry Tebbits. On this particular morning it was Harry Tebbits, pipe in mouth, who strode over to see Peter; found him, cap on head, coat over arm, standing under the beaten walnut tree.

The blond giant opined that if Peter really meant to go up to London, the least Peter could do would be to bring back some whisky.

“Well,” said Peter, “I’ll do the best I can, Harry. But if the armistice is signed, I expect London’ll be drunk dry by half-past two. Don’t suppose you’ll get much out of the folk today, Harry.”

The giant smiled. “Not much use telling the cows about Armistices. Still, I don’t expect we’ll kill ourselves with work. Not today at all events. Old Tiger’s been after the skim again. Never saw such a dog for the milk.”

“Tiger o’ Sunflowers,” an enormous silver-brindled Dane, lounged up the drive; gave his master dignified greeting. Patricia, furred and gauntleted, came hurrying out of the house.

“Well, I may as well see you safe off the premises,” smiled Harry Tebbits. The three made their way to the “garrige.” Passing the stables, they heard Driver Garton’s, “Now then, you”; Evelyn and Primula’s raised voices; the stamp of hooves on tile. Wilhelmina, the bay filly who had succeeded Little Willie in Peter’s heart, was protesting as usual about her morning toilet....

Peter and Corporal Hankins had spent all Sunday tinkering with the Crossley, rubbing away the grease of two years’ idleness, fitting new sparking-plugs, testing brake-shoes and magneto, filling her petrol-tank and polishing her brass-work. Still, the car looked her age.

“Charlie’ll have to give her a coat of varnish one of these days,” hazarded Charlie’s brother, tapping strong fingers on the bonnet. But the engine started sweetly enough; and Peter, running her out for Patricia to mount, felt conscious of the old driving-thrill.

“Shan’t be at Dilly-Dally’s till nine,” he said as she climbed up beside him. Harry ran to open the gate; Tiger o’ Sunflowers smelt at the Klaxon, bounded away barking at the bark of it; Evelyn and Primula waved good-bye from the stable-door. They were off.

By the meadow-patch it is a bare mile from Sunflowers to Glen Cottage; but the shortest road takes you half way to Arlsfield; circles a fair portion of the Tebbits-Jameson land before it dives towards the chestnut trees of Arlsfield Park.

It was a goodly November day; soft gray clouds, sun atween, hinting of rain to come.

They passed the eight-acre vegetable field,—inter-cropped, potatoes, already dug, with winter green-stuff, fat white-hearted savoys, inturned broccoli, curly-leaved kale and knee-high Brussels sprouts; they passed the “warren”—fenced dip of chalk pitted land on which Peter had turned down half a hundred Belgian Hare does to mate with the “original inhabitants”; they skirted two stubbles, and a new-sown patch of pedigreed wheat; hummed through the browning spinney—and made Glen Cottage by five minutes to nine.

The home of Francis and Beatrice showed no signs of intensive cultivation; meadow-land, over which Peter’s merinos and Peter’s Jerseys browsed and grazed at will, ran down to its very walls. Three times, the indomitable Beatrice had engaged a gardener, but each time Peter, hungry for men, enticed him away.

“Private gardens,” said our Mr. Jameson, “are out of date. Besides, as your landlord, your greengrocer, your carrier, your poulterer and your dairyman—I forbid it.”

Beatrice christened him the “Octopus of Arlsfield”; but eventually submitted. She was standing at the cottage-gate as the Octopus and his wife drove up. Fifteen months of matrimony had not altered her essential girlishness: but the face under the close-fitting toque of ermine seemed less pale than the day she and Peter first met; the gray eyes, though still thoughtful, held more of laughter.

“Dally won’t be a minute,” she smiled at them. “You’ve just got time to turn the car.”

Peter, with a jest about not having enough “gasoline,” obeyed; throttled down his engine; gave a glance at clock on dashboard as the two women kissed good-morning.

“Confound Dally,” he said after a while, “it’s nearly ten past already.”

Francis, followed by Prout, who carried an enormous basket and a long thin parcel wrapped in brown paper, limped out of the house. He wore his usual brown overcoat, his usual cream buckskin gloves, his inevitable old Etonian tie.

“What on earth have you got there?” demanded his cousin.

“Food, fizz and flags,” chuckled Francis. “Shove ’em in the tonneau, Prout. If I know London, we’ll have about as much chance of getting anything to eat....” He superintended the disposal of these treasures; handed Beatrice into the car—-and remembered he had forgotten her muff. By the time Prout had retrieved this, tucked in the young people, and closed the door on them, it was twenty past nine.

“Shall we do it?” asked Patricia.

“Do it?”—Peter chuckled scornfully—“you watch!” He opened throttle as he spoke; fingered lever gently from neutral to first, first to second, second to top. Horse-chestnuts popped from tire-covers as the Crossley gathered way. Arlsfield Park, a blurr of tree-trunks at side and interlaced branches overhead, spun behind them. They missed Sid Dyson’s timber-tug by an ant’s breadth; hooted past the Colonel’s crested gate-pillars; switchbacked downhill towards Henley.

Dilly and Dally, feet tight-propped against the provision basket, looked at each other in mock alarm. “It wasn’t our fault,” stammered Francis through chattering teeth, “why wasn’t the Octopus on time? He said half-past eight.”

Beatrice, craning forward a moment, eyed the speedometer. “What are we doing, Beatrice?” “Forty-five and a chip.” “Lord!”

The car shot on, purring—Peter, nearly recumbent, notched wheel gripped easily in gloved hands; Patricia bolt upright, eyes on the speeding hedge-rows.

They made the six miles to Henley in a fraction over twelve minutes; swirled righthanded at the railway-station; took the water-front at a bound; skidded the Bridge-corner on two wheels. Church, bridge and river vanished like mad movies.

“Going well,” muttered Peter through set teeth. White Hill rose up like a roof ahead. “Open that cut-out for me.” Exhaust roaring, cylinders throbbing, the Crossley hurtled up between the trees; slowed to twenty; felt herself flung back into second; topped the rise; raced engine the fraction of an instant; took top-gear again; shot on.

Houses, trees, a crawling dray, flashed astern. Gray tarmac zipped under. Ahead, the road rose; dropped; rose again. Now, they were in open country. Peter took one deep breath; fidgeted throttle-lever full open; jammed foot on accelerator. Couple behind felt the car gather herself as if for a great leap; saw passing hedge-rows fade out to a continuous blurr. Speedometer-needle clicked to sixty; held there for three and a half ecstatic minutes....

“Right, isn’t it?” shouted Peter suddenly. “Yes.” Patricia, map on knee, watched Hurley Bottom skim by. He slowed; climbed a hair-pin turn warily; nipped across the Thicket; veered left for Maidenhead.

The clock at Nicholson’s Brewery showed five minutes past ten as they crawled down into the town; opened out again for the Bridge; swished over it past Skindle’s Hotel.

“Shall we do it?” asked Pat.

“Question of luck.” He opened the cut-out again; roared under Taplow Railway-viaduct. So far, road had been almost empty. Now, other cars appeared ahead. The Crossley raced them down the Bath Road; passed them one by one. Slough vanished. Something honked behind them; honked again. Peter, wheels almost on turf, was aware of a Rolls-Royce bonnet, of a dark-blue car sweeping by; caught a glimpse of Arthur, in sky-blue Air Service uniform, sitting rigid at the wheel....

Crossley gathered way; Klaxon barked furiously; Rolls-Royce swerved; Peter, grin on his face, shot past. Beatrice, peering over the back of the cabriolet, saw Arthur’s eyes light; saw his hand move slowly on the wheel. Then the Rolls-Royce was on them; creeping up, effortless, silent.... Honk, honk, honk. “Drat the fellow,” muttered Peter. For a mile, he refused way; then Arthur, with two inches to spare, purred calmly by; recognized Peter with a wave of the hand—and disappeared in dust....

Still, they made Hounslow by half-past ten; edged warily over tram-lines; pulled up for a second to avoid disaster.

“Hope you’re not joy-riding, sir,” grinned a blue-helmeted constable.

“Joy-riding!”—Peter, hand on gear lever, grinned back scornfully—“do we look as if we were joy-riding!” Francis, peeping overside, was understood to mutter something about, “bringing the good news from Aix to Ghent.” ...

None of the four quite remembers how they made the last lap to London. It comes back to them as a jerking, fidgety dream—houses, tram-lines, motor-omnibuses; a scrap of clear straight road here; turns there; people staring, people cursing; shop-windows in which they saw themselves skidding past; dogs diving for cover; scream of Klaxon, jar of gear-lever, throb of engine.... “Time?”, Peter kept asking. “Time, Pat?” ... “Ten-thirty-five.” ... “Ten-forty.” ... “Quarter to, all but ten seconds.” ... “Damn it, we must make Piccadilly by eleven o ’clock.” ... More houses.... A saloon.... Francis, head down in the tonneau, groping for his flags, hitting his head against the back of the driving-seat.... “Twelve minutes to eleven.” ... Beatrice, eyes on Peter’s cap, muttering to herself, “He’ll never do it. I’ll never forgive him if he doesn’t do it.” ...

“Five to!” called Patricia—and Fulham Road streamed out behind as they zig-zagged in and out among sparse traffic....

“Three minutes.” ... “What was that? Oh, yes, Harrods. Good old Harrods.” ... “Two minutes more.” ... The Hyde Park Hotel whizzed by.... Railings.... A clear road.... Hyde Park Corner ahead ... and:—

“Done it, I think,” remarked our Mr. Jameson, as a motor-bus, swaying out of Park Lane, missed their rear mud-guards by the grace of God and two inches....

Thut of cylinders dropped to steady purr. Clubland on their left, railings on their right, slackened speed; grew steady and perceptible. Traffic, through which the Crossley threaded easy way, appeared all round them.... They were in Piccadilly! ...

Clarges Street—Half Moon Street—Bolton Street—known names, black-lettered on gray stone—Apsley House—The Ritz—corner of Bond Street....

And, suddenly, they heard a voice. “P.J.!” bawled the voice. “Hi! P.J.! Halt, will you! Halt, I say.”

Peter, jamming brakes hard on, felt the car skid under him; felt wheels jar against sidewalk; was aware of Francis, shouting in his ear “Bravo, well-driven old thing,” of Beatrice and Patricia standing up, of a taxi-back two inches from his radiator, of a motor-bus grinding to standstill—and of a little red man, with flat red moustaches on his face and faded red tabs on his uniform, a little red man in a huge cap, who came dashing out of Scott’s hat-shop, bawling: “Halt, confound you, P.J. Halt! It’s eleven o’clock.” ...

It was the Weasel; and even as the Weasel darted across the sidewalk, London went mad and they with London!

Pandemonium broke loose—a tornado of sound—horns, whistles, rowing-rattles, bugles—men shouting—women screaming. The five in the Crossley couldn’t hear pandemonium. They were of pandemonium—crazy. Brigadier General the Weasel, palms to mouth, straddling the radiator with spurred legs, beating bonnet with his cane, was hallooing like a lunatic: “Forrard away!” hallooed the Weasel. “Forrard away! Forrard away! Hi, tear ’em, tear ’em, tear ’em.” Francis, scarlet in the face, bolt upright, lameness forgotten, bawled an inarticulate “Eton! Well rowed, Eton.” Peter, finger pressed home on the hoarsely-shrieking Klaxon, was howling some Indian war-whoop of his own. Patricia, dumb with emotion, imagined herself to be cheering. And Beatrice, the hyper-critical, hyper-sensitive Beatrice, was yelling, yelling at the top of her voice. “Ya, ya, ya, ya, ya,” yelled Beatrice—but somehow or other she couldn’t finish the yell; dropped back, speechless, in the tonneau....

Pandemonium! Traffic had stopped. There was no traffic: only motionless vehicles—lorries, motor-omnibuses, taxis, a Rolls-Royce, a hansom-cab—yes, a veritable hansom cab. And every vehicle swarmed with men and women. Men and women swarmed on every vehicle. Swarmed and shrieked and waved flags....

Pandemonium! The very houses had gone mad. The houses were alive—alive with men and women. The houses were wide open. Men and women poured out of the houses into the streets. The streets were alive with men and women. They swarmed in the streets; swarmed and danced and cheered and shouted and waved flags....

Pandemonium! The flags had gone mad. There were a million flags—Union Jacks and Stars-and-Stripes, Tricolour flags and Belgian flags and Japanese flags; Italian flags and Portuguese flags, Commonwealth flags and Dominion flags, Royal Standards and White Ensigns....

Pandemonium! Everybody was moving—vehicles were moving—people were moving—flags were moving. Their own flags—Union Jack with Old Glory—were moving. The Crossley was moving....

“Forrard away,” hallooed Brigadier General the Weasel, still astride the radiator. “Forrard away, sir,” Peter howled back from the driving seat....

Pandemonium! Everybody was dancing. The flags were dancing. Men and women on the sidewalk were dancing. Soldiers were dancing—English soldiers and American soldiers, French soldiers and Belgian soldiers, Portuguese and Japanese and Italian soldiers—lame soldiers and legless soldiers and armless soldiers—ill soldiers and well soldiers. Sailors were dancing—English sailors and American sailors, French sailors and Italian sailors and Japanese sailors. The very houses were dancing: floods of white paper came dancing down out of the dancing houses. Their own car was dancing: her cushions were dancing: they could feel her engine dancing. They themselves were dancing: they could feel their hearts dancing inside them: the blood was dancing in their veins, dancing and dancing....

But late that Armistice Day afternoon when the five sat knee-to-knee in the closed and motionless car—Hyde Park trees at its windows, rain tapping on its taut roof; when they poured the dancing wine of Francis’ forethought from gold-foiled bottle-neck and clinked brimmed glasses in token of civilization’s triumph over the Beast; when the Weasel, speaking solemnly as though he were proposing the King’s Health on guest-night, gave them: “Our men, God bless them, our splendid, splendid men!”—then Beatrice and Patricia could have sworn that they saw the tears of their own hearts reflected not only in their lovers’ eyes, but in the hard blue eyes of Brigadier General Douglas Stark, Royal Field Artillery.

THE END

Mis-spelled words and printer errors have been fixed.

Inconsistency in hyphenation has been retained.

Inconsistency in accents has been retained.