It is rough walking, but
she doesn't mind. I had stopped to tie a fresh ribbon about my cap,--a
tri-color,--and was about five minutes behind her. I was about halfway
down the hill when I saw Amelie coming back, running, stumbling, waving
her milk-can and shouting, "Madame--un anglais, un anglais." And sure
enough, coming on behind her, his face wreathed in smiles, was an
English bicycle scout, wheeling his machine. As soon as he saw me, he
waved his cap, and Amelie breathlessly explained that she had said,
"Dame americaine" and he had dismounted and followed her at once.
We went together to meet him. As soon as he was near enough, he called
out, "Good-morning. Everything is all right. Germans been as near you
as they will ever get. Close shave."
"Where are they?" I asked as we met.
"Retreating to the northeast--on the Ourcq."
I could have kissed him. Amelie did. She simply threw both arms round
his neck and smacked him on both cheeks, and he said, "Thank you,
ma'am," quite prettily; and, like the nice clean English boy he was, he
blushed.
"You can be perfectly calm," he said. "Look behind you."
I looked, and there along the top of my hill I saw a long line of
bicyclists in khaki.
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