In the heart of the Forêt de Roumare there is a spot called Rond du
Chêne à Leu, where eight paths meet. Why they choose to meet there,
unless it is for company, one can't imagine. The fact that there is not
an estaminet within five kilometres nullifies its value as a military
objective. Therefore, having been decoyed thither by a plausible
guide-book, it was with surprise that I beheld an ancient representative
of the British Army smoking his pipe with the air of having been in
possession for centuries.
"Bit lonely here," I said.
"Rumble's Moor on a wet Friday's busy to it," he said emphatically. "Is
it reet the War's over?"
"Yes."
He puffed his pipe for a few minutes while the information soaked in.
"Who won?"
"The Peace Conference haven't decided yet."
Conversation languished until I remembered the guide-book.
"According to tradition," I said, "it was at this identical spot that
ROLLO, first Duke of Normandy, hung his golden chain on a sign-post for
a whole year without having it stolen."
"Tha-at ud be afore we brought our Chinese Labour gang felling timber,"
he said firmly; "I wudden give it five minutes now."
"I understand, too, that there is a historic ruin hereabouts."
"Theer was," he said; "but he's in hospital."
"What do you mean?"
"Ratty Beslow; my owd colleague an' sparring pardner. It's 'im you weer
talking of, ain't it?"
"It wasn't; but I'm interested in him," I said, sitting down on a pile
of logs. "How did he get to hospital?"
"Through a mistake in Nacheral 'Istory. You see, me an' Ratty had been
in th' War a goodish time an' ha-ad lost our o-riginal ferociousness. So
they put us to this Chink Labour gang for a rest-cure. Likewise Ratty
'ad got too fa-amous as a timber-scrounger oop th' line, and it was
thought that if 'e was left in th' middle of a forest, wheer it didn't
matter a dang if he scrounged wood fra' revally to tattoo, it might
reform him. But it was deadly dull. We tried a sweepstake f'r th' one as
could recognise most Chinks at sight, and a raffle for who could guess
how many trees in a circle; but there wasn't much spice in it. So at
last Ratty suggested we should try a bit o' poaching.
"'Ah doan't know th' first thing about it,' I says; 'Ah'm town bred.
Nobbut Ah could knock a few rabbits over if Ah'd got a Lewis gun handy.'
"'Rabbuts be danged!' says he; 'Ah've no use f'r such vermin. Theer's
stags, so Ah've heerd tell, in this forest.'
"'Ah wudden say no to a haunch o' venison,' I answered; 'but stags is
artillery work.'
"'They is not,' says Ratty. 'Nor yet rifles nor bombs.'
"'Ah s'pose you stops theer holes an' puts in a ferret,' says I,
sarcastic; 'or else traps 'em wi' cheese.'
"'That's the only kind o' hunting you've bin used to,' replies Ratty.
'Stags is caught wi' tactics, a trip-wire an' a lasso.'
"'Well, la-ad,' I says, 'you'd best do th' lassoing. I doan't know the
habits o' stags.'
"Ratty scrounges a prime rope fra' somewheers, an' we creeps out after
nightfall. It was a dree night, the owd bracken underfoot damp an'
sodden, an' th' tall firs looking grim an' gho-ostly in th' gloom. Soon
theer was a crackling o' twigs, like a tank scouting on tiptoe.
"'Bosch patrol half-left!' whispers I.
"'Stow it, you blighter,' says Ratty. 'This is serious. Can't you see
th' stag?'
"I peeps round and, loomin' in the da-arkness, see th' hindquarters of a
stag sticking out ayant a tree. It looked bigger 'n Ah 've seen 'em in
pictures, but Ah 've noticed Fritzes look bigger in th' dark.
"'Now's your chance, la-ad,' I whispers. 'Trip round an' slip th' noose
over 'is horns.'
"'Not me,' growls Batty. 'T'other end's safer.'
"He crawls up to it wi' th' rope all ready, but just as he was going to
slip it over its leg it seemed to stand on its head, feint wi' its left
an' get an upper-cut wi' its right under Ratty's chin. A shadow passed
across th' fa-ace o' the moon, which I judged to be Ratty.
"'Ratty's after altitude records,' says I to meself, 'an' there'll be
th' ellanall of a row if that rope's lost.'
"However, in a few minutes he started to descend an' made a good landing
in some soft bracken. By th' time I'd felt him all over, an' found 'e'd
be fit to go to hospital in th' morning, th' stag had disappeared."
"I never heard of stags kicking like that before," I interrupted.
"Nor hadn't Ratty," said the ancient warrior. "Ah towd you he made a
mistake in Nacheral 'Istory.
"The next night, feeling mighty lonely, Ah walked five kilometres to th'
nearest estaminet, the 'Rondyvoo de Chasers,' an' looked upon the _vang_
while it was _rouge_. When I'd done lookin' and started home th' forest
looked more gho-ost-like than ever wi' th' young firs bowing an'
swaying, and drifts o' cloud peeping through the branches. All at once I
heerd a crackling o' twigs like th' night afore, an' then someone stole
acrost th' road carrying a rope.
"Ah says to myself, 'It's one of th' Chinks poaching, an' it's 'evin
'elp 'im if 'e 's after what Ratty nearly caught last night!'
"Seemingly 'e was, for 'e follered th' noise, an' Ah follered 'im--at a
safe distance. Then, dimlike an' looming big, Ah saw th' stag, an' the
Chink stealing up behind it.
"'Tother end, you fool!' I whispered; an' he jumps round to its head,
slips th' noose round its neck an' leads if off as quiet as a lamb."
"You don't expect me to believe," I broke in indignantly, "that a stag
can be led like a poodle on a lead?"
"P'r'aps not stags," said the veteran, relighting his pipe. "That's weer
Ratty made the mistake that sent 'im to hospital. But you can do it now
and then with a transport mule what's broke away, and the Chink done
it."
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[Illustration: _Photographer (to Douglas Devereux, the world-famous
cinema-actor_). "TIKE YER PHOTO, SIR?"]
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