In the wild mountain land above Nice last week there were strange goings-on. A woeful old knight was seen riding a ribby white horse as seedy as himself. He encountered a band of brigands, attacked them singlehanded. He mistook the sails of a windmill for threatening giants, charged into them to his own near- destruction. After him on muleback plodded a faithful red-faced squire, but with all his remonstrating he had no more control over his crack-brained sire than did the cinemen trying to film the proceedings. The red-faced squire was old George Robey,...
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