And behind him, in the car, barking joyfully at the sight of their mistress, are three big dogs.
"Mais comme les Anglais sont gentils!" say the Belgian soldiers along the road.
Out of the burning town of Lierre that same day a canary and a grey Congo parrot are tenderly handed over to my care by a couple of English Tommies who have found them in a burning house.
The canary is in a little red cage, and the Tommies have managed to put in some lumps of sugar.
"The poor little thing is starving!" says a Tommy compassionately. "It'll be better with you, ma'am."
I bring the birds back in my car to Antwerp.
But the parrot is very frightened.
He will not eat. He will not drink. He looks as if he is going to die, until I ask Mr. Cherry Kearton to come and see him. And then, voilà! The famous English naturalist bends over him, talks, pets him, and in a few minutes "Coco" is busy trimming Cherry Kearton's moustache with his little black beak, and from that very moment the bird begins to recover.
As I write the parrot and canary sit here on my table, the parrot perching on the canary's cage.