The Tommies, these Lancashire lads at least, are decidedly a musical lot and usually possess light and pleasant voices. Opposite me is the queerest little specimen. He has a face like an American Indian, with a couple of tomb-stone molars protruding from its oral aperture. His ambition is to be put on chicken diet, but he has taken comfort at present in a couple of nauseating cigars which I gave him, having bought 3 on spec and hurled away the first after a couple of whiffs. As I look up casually, through an opening in the great trees, just over the top of a richly-apparelled copper beech I espy my old friend the captive balloon with its mule-like face turned in my direction – a silent and reproachful reminder of my forgotten charges. Who is now grooming Rangatira and Scatty?