These tickets are souvenirs
too portable to resist. I gave way to that common weakness.
I went out and looked up and down the line; two deserted goods trucks
stood as if they sheltered under a footbridge. The grass poked out
through their wheels. The railway signals seemed uncertain in their
intimations; some were up and some were down. And it was as still and
empty as a summer afternoon in Pompeii. No train has come into Arras for
two long years now.
We lunched in a sunny garden with various men who love Arras but are
weary of it, and we disputed about Irish politics. We discussed the
political future of Sir F. E. Smith. We also disputed whether there was
an equivalent in English for _embusque._ Every now and then a shell came
over--an aimless shell.
A certain liveliness marked our departure from the town. Possibly the
Germans also listen for the rare infrequent automobile. At any rate, as
we were just starting our way back--it is improper to mention the exact
point from which we started--came "Pheeee---woooo." Quite close. But
there was no _Bang!_ One's mind hung expectant and disappointed. It was
a dud shell.
And then suddenly I became acutely aware of the personality of our
chauffeur. It was not his business to talk to us, but he turned his
head, showed a sharp profile, wry lips and a bright excited eye, and
remarked, "_That_ was a near one--anyhow.
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