His effort to get through by bus to Chartres had failed most dismally, and here he was!
Sleeping in a hay-loft, with four children utterly dependent on him, straight in the path of the invading German Army!
He turned uneasily in the hay.
Things might not be so bad.
The Germans, after all, could hardly get past Paris; that lay to the north of him, a sure shield the farther west he got.
Tomorrow he would reach Montargis, even if it meant walking the whole way; the children could do ten miles in a day if they went at a slow pace and if the younger two had rides occasionally in the pram.
At Montargis he would hand the little boy in grey over to the sisters, and report the death of his parents to the police.
At Montargis, at a town like that, there would be a bus to Pithiviers, perhaps even all the way to Chartres.
All night these matters rolled round in his mind, in the intervals of cold, uneasy slumber.
He did not sleep well.
Dawn came at about four, a thin grey light that stole into the loft, pointing the cobwebs strung between the rafters.
He dozed and slept again; at about six he got up and went down the ladder and sluiced his face under the pump.
The growth of thin stubble on his chin offended him, but he shrank from trying to shave beneath the pump.
In Montargis there would be a hotel; he would wait till then.
The women were already busy about the work of the farm.
He spoke to the older one, and asked if she would make some coffee for the children.
Three francs, for the four of them, she said.
He reassured her on that point, and went to get the children up.
He found them already running about; they had seen him go downstairs.
He sent them down to wash their faces at the pump.
The little boy in grey hung back.
From the ladder Rose called to him, but he would not go.
Howard, folding up the blankets, glanced at him. 'Go on and wash your face,' he said in French.
'Rose is calling you.'
The little boy put his right hand on his stomach and bowed to him.
'Monsieur,' he whispered.
The old man stood looking at him nonplussed.
It was the first time he had heard him speak.
The child stood looking up at him imploringly, his hand still on his stomach.
'What's the matter, old boy?' Howard said in French.
Silence.
He dropped stiffly down on one knee, till their heads were level.
'What is it?'
He whispered: 'J'ai perdu le sifflet.'
The old man got up and gave it to him.
'Here it is,' he said. 'Quite safe.
Now go on down and let Rose wash your face.'
He watched him thoughtfully as he clambered backwards down the steps.
'Rose, wash his face for him.'
He gave the children their coffee in the kitchen of the farm with the remainder of the bread, attended to their more personal requirements, paid the old lady twenty francs for food and lodging.
At about quarter past seven he led them one by one past the chien mechant and out on to the road again, pushing the pram before him.
High overhead a few aeroplanes passed on a pale blue, cloudless sky; he could not tell if they were French or German.
It was another glorious summer morning.
On the road the military lorries, were thicker than ever, and once or twice in the first hour a team of guns passed by them, drawn by tired, sweating horses flogged westwards by dirty, unshaven men in horizon blue.
That day there did not seem to be so many refugees on the road.
The cyclists and the walkers and the families in decrepit, overloaded pony-carts were just as numerous, but there were few private cars in evidence on the road.
For the first hour Howard walked continually looking backwards for a bus, but no bus came.
The children were very merry.
They ran about and chattered to each other and to Howard, playing little games that now and then threatened their lives under the wheels of dusty lorries driven by tired men, and which had then to be checked.
As the day grew warmer he let them take off their coats and jerseys and put them in the pram.