The man blushed crimson.
"Ah—I couldn't think—"
"No trouble. Get one of your men to make a blaze, and, boasting aside,
I'll brew you a cup such as you haven't had since you left England."
No sooner said than done, and quarter of an hour later, a half-dozen Tommy Atkins were sipping hot Kardomah with sugar and condensed milk from tin mugs.
"You're certainly right—the French don't know how to do it, at least in these parts. I had a teapotful yesterday morning that was as near a mixture of stewed herbs and Hunyadi water I ever hope to taste. And now, isn't there something we can do for you?"
"Tell me where you're bound for?"
The man brought out a note-book and pointed to a name.
"La Ferte-sous-Jouarre?"
"Yes, that's it. I wouldn't dare tackle it."
"Is the road clear? Can we go there? It's only fifteen kilometers from my home."