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After a while, a boy leaned out: "Hey, l'Americain, vous voulez monter?" "Where are you going?" "Conflans-Ste.-Honorine." "Where's that?" The boy flourished his whip vaguely towards the horse's head. "All right," said Andrews. "These are potatoes," said the boy, "make yourself comfortable. Andrews offered him a cigarette, which he took with muddy fingers.
He had a broad face, red cheeks and chunky features. Reddish-brown hair escaped spikily from under a mud-spattered beret. "Where did you say you were going?" "Conflans-Ste.-Honorine. Silly all these saints, aren't they?" Andrews laughed. "Where are you going?" the boy asked. "I don't know. I was taking a walk." The boy leaned over to Andrews and whispered in his car: "Deserter?"
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