Knowing him to be a scorcher I excused myself by saying that I was not ready to go.

He started; very soon afterwards word came back that he had run into a telegraph post and killed himself and his driver.

Such things tend to cool one's motor ambition.
At Oran I boarded a small French steamer for Mellilla, in Spanish Morocco, a Spanish convict station and a considerable military post.
This was just before Spain's recent Riff Campaign.

The table fare on the steamer was not British! Cuttle-fish soup or stew was prominent on the bill; a huge dish of snails was always much in demand, and the other delicacies were not tempting, to me at least.

Eggs, always eggs! How often in one's travels does one have to resort to them.