HOTEL EMBANKMENT.

All lines converge to this Hotel, which is therefore the most central in London.  Frequent trains convey visitors direct to their beds.  For the convenience of patrons arriving above ground or by District, the Directors have installed a superb moving staircase, thereby obviating the inconvenience of crowded lifts.

The platforms and passages are tastefully decorated with coloured pictures by the leading firms.

Visitors are respectfully requested not to sleep on the moving staircase.

HOTEL PICCADILLY CIRCUS.

IN THE HEART OF FASHIONABLE LONDON.

This Hotel, which is one of the deepest in London, is composed of four magnificent platforms and nearly a mile of finely tessellated corridors.  Electric light.  Constant temperature of sixty-five degrees Fahrenheit.  Excellent catering under the control of the Automatic Machine Company.  Reduced terms during moonless nights.

HOTEL HAMPSTEAD TUBE.

Situated in a commanding position, underlooking the Heath, this hotel is positively the deepest in London.  The Management has decided to extend the accommodation during one week in each month by offering beds on the steps of the staircase.  No one has ever been known to walk either up or down this staircase, and patrons are therefore assured of an uninterrupted night’s repose.  Extremely moderate terms are quoted for the higher flights.

THE GILLESPIE ARMS.

Ensure an undisturbed night’s sleep by putting up at the Gillespie Road Station Family and Commercial Hotel.  Large numbers of trains pass this station without stopping, and residents are comparatively free from the annoyance caused by the arrival and departure of passengers.

Special terms for Aliens, who are requested to bring their own mattresses.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  A PLACE IN THE MOON.

HANS.  “HOW BEAUTIFUL A MOON, MY LOVE, FOR SHOWING UP ENGLAND TO OUR
GALLANT AIRMEN!”

GRETCHEN.  “YES, DEAREST, BUT MAY IT NOT SHOW UP THE FATHERLAND TO THE
BRUTAL ENEMY ONE OF THESE NIGHTS?”]

* * * * *

CODES.

It began like the noise of rushing water, and for a moment the Brigade Major hoped that somebody had taken it upon himself to wash the orderly.  The noise, however, was followed by a succession of thumps which put an end to this pretty flight of fancy.  Aghast he surveyed the scene before him.  Close to the Brigade Headquarters’ dug-out was an old French dump of every conceivable kind of explosive made up into every known form of projectile.  No longer was it a picture of Still Life.  The Sleeping Beauty was awake indeed.  The Prince had come in the form of a common whizz-bang.