The road went on and on; by his reckoning they had come about five miles from where they had left the bus.
There were still ten miles or so ahead of them, and night was coming on.
The children were weary.
Ronnie and Sheila were inclined to quarrel with each other; the old man felt that Sheila would burst into tears of temper and fatigue before so very long.
Rose was not so buoyant as she had been and her flow of chatter to the little boy had ceased; she slipped along on her bare feet in silence, leading him by the hand.
The little boy, Pierre, went on with her, white-faced and silent, stumbling a little now and then, the whistle held tight in his little hand.
It was time for them to find a lodging for the night.
The choice was limited.
There was a farm on the right of the road, and half a mile farther on he could see a farm on the left of the road; farther than that the children could not walk.
He turned into the first one.
A placard nailed on a post, CHIEN MECHANT, warned him, but did not warn the children.
The dog, an enormous brindled creature, leaped out at them to the limit of his chain, raising a terrific clamour.
The children scattered back, Sheila let out a roar of fright and tears, and Rose began to whimper.
It was in the din of dog and children competing with each other that Howard presented himself at the door of the farm and asked for a bed for the children.
The gnarled old woman said: 'There are no beds here.
Do you take this for a hotel?'
A buxom, younger woman behind her said:
'They could sleep in the barn, ma mere.'
The old dame said:
'Eh? the barn?'
She looked Howard up and down. 'The soldiers sleep in the barn when we billet them.
Have you any money?'
He said: 'I have enough to pay for a good bed for these children, madame.'
'Ten francs.'
'I have ten francs.
May I see the barn?'
She led him through the cow-house to the barn behind.
It was a large, bare apartment with a threshing floor at one end, empty and comfortless.
The younger woman followed behind them.
He shook his head.
'I am desolated, madame, but the children must have a bed.
I must look somewhere else.'
He heard the younger woman whisper something about the hay-loft.
He heard the older woman protest angrily.
He heard the young one say:
'Ils sont fatigues, les petits...'
Then they turned aside and conferred together.
The hay-loft proved to be quite possible.
It was a shelter, anyway, and somewhere where the children could sleep.
He made a bargain for them to sleep there for fifteen francs.
He found that the women had milk to spare, but little food.
He left the children in the loft and went and brought the pram in past the dog; he broke his bread in two and gave half of it to the younger woman, who would make bread and milk for the children.
Half an hour later he was doing what he could to make the children comfortable on the hay.
The younger woman came in and stood watching for a moment.
'You have no blankets, then?' she said.
He shook his head, bitterly regretful that he had left his blanket in the bus.
'It was necessary to leave everything, madame,' he said quietly.
She did not speak, but presently she went away.
Ten minutes later she returned with two coarse blankets of the sort used for horses.
'Do not tell ma mere,' she said gruffly.