It had, in fact, left me to make my own way,
contenting itself with cautioning me if I didn't stick to the right
side of the road, or to fining me if I exceeded the speed limit. In
August of that memorable year it got, you will remember, mixed up
in rather a nasty bother. Searching for friends to get it out, it
bethought itself of Henry, along with 499,999 others whose names for
the moment I do not recall. Between us (with subsequent assistance) we
set things to rights, and nothing remained for Old England save to rid
itself gracefully of what remained of its few millions of new-found
friends. There was, however, no shaking off its bosom pal, Henry. I
am one of those loyal characters whose affection, once gained, nothing
can undo. No use saying to me: "Well, old man, it's getting late now;
you must come and see us again some other day." I am one of the sort
who answer: "Don't you worry yourself about that. I'm going to stay
and go on seeing you now."
In the early days of demobilisation there was, I think, a certain
novelty and attraction about my attitude to the problem. In contrast
to the impatient hordes crowding the entrance of the War Office,
ringing the front-door bell violently, tapping on the window-panes
and generally disturbing that serene atmosphere of peace which was the
great feature of the War in Whitehall, it was refreshing to think
of Henry, plugging quietly away elsewhere at his military duties,
undeterred by armistices, peaces and things of that kind.
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