That night I received a note from Monsieur Le Roux, hardware merchant and incidentally our landlord, thanking me for sixteen francs seventy-five centimes paid in advance to his workman, and asking me to name a day on which he could call to mend our broken stove.

* * * * *

“It is not a little pathetic to observe that a year ago, and even two years ago, The Daily Mail was urging the Government then in power to introduce compulsory rations.  Thus on November 13, 1916, we said:  ’Ministers should at once prepare the organisation for a system of bread tickets.  It took the diligent Germans six months to get their system into action, and it will take our ... officials quite as long.  They ought to be getting to work on it now, not putting it off.’”—­Daily Mail.

We dare not guess what was the suppressed adjective that The Daily Mail applied to “our officials.”

* * * * *

[Illustration:  OUR UNEMPLOYED.

WAR OFFICE BRASS HAT (to Volunteer, “A” Class).  “AND MIND YOU, IF
YOU DON’T FULFIL YOUR OBLIGATIONS YOU’LL BE COURT-MARTIALLED!”

MR. PUNCH.  “THAT WON’T WORRY HIM.  HIS TROUBLE IS THAT, WHEN HE DOES
FULFIL HIS OBLIGATIONS, YOU MAKE SO LITTLE USE OF HIM.”]

* * * * *

SUGAR CONTROL.

“Good evening, Sir,” said Lord RHONDDA’S minion (the man who does his dirty work), moistening his lips with a bit of pencil.  “You were allocated one hundredweight of sugar for jam-making in respect of your soft fruit, I believe?”

“How did you guess?” I said.  “I say, do tell me when the War’s going to end.  Just between ourselves, you know.”

“This being the case,” he went on (evidently trying to change the subject—­no War Office secrets to be got out of him, you notice), “I must request you to show me your fruit-trees and also your jam cupboard.”

“The latter,” I said—­for he had called just after tea—­“is rather full at present, but doing nicely, thanks.  As you observe, however, we think it wiser not to try to close the bottom button of the door.”

“Perhaps your wife—­” suggested the man tentatively.

“My wife does her best, of course.  She often says, ’Dearest, a third pot of tea if you like, but I’m sure a third cup of jam wouldn’t be good for you.’  By the way, don’t you want to see the tea-orchard too?  The Cox’s Orange Pekoes have done frightfully well this year—­the new blend, you know; or should I say hybrid?”

At this moment my wife appeared, looking particularly charming in a mousseline de soie aux fines herbes—­anglice, a sprigged muslin.  I seized her hand and led her aside.

“Lord RHONDDA’S myrmidon is upon us!” I hissed. “’Tis for your husband’s life, child.  Hold the minion of the law in check—­attract him; fascinate him; play him that little thing on the piano—­you know, ’Tum-ti-tum’—­while I slope off to the secret chamber, where my ancestor lay hid before—­I mean after—­the Battle of Worcester.  By the way, I hope it’s been dusted lately?  Hush! if he sees us hold secret parlance I’m lost.”