“Hello,” said “A.”  “There is no Town Major at Rataplan,” said the Adjutant.  “You astound me, Fair Unknown,” said “A.”; “but what about it, anyway?” The Adjutant apologised and asked Exchange for “Q.” department.  “Hello,” said “Q.”  “There is no Town Major at Rataplan,” said the Adjutant.  “Sorry, old thing, whoever you are,” said “Q.,” “but we don’t stock ’em.  Rations, iron; perspirators, box; oil, whale, delivered with promptitude and civility, but NOT Town Majors—­sorry.”  The Adjutant sighed and consulted with Exchange as to who possibly could have rung him up.

Exchange couldn’t guess unless it was “I.”—­no harm in trying, anyhow.

“Hello!” said “I.”  “There is no Town Major at Rataplan,” the Adjutant, droned somewhat wearily.  “Wha-t!” “I.” exclaimed, suddenly interested.  “Say it again, clearer.”  “RAT-A-PLAN—­NO—­TOWN—­MA-JOR,” the Adjutant repeated.  There was a pause; then he heard the somebody give off an awed “Good Lord!” and drop the receiver.  Next morning in Funny Cuts (the organ of Intelligence) we learned that “Corps Headquarters was heavily shelled last night.  The Town Major is missing.  This is evidence that the enemy has brought long-range guns into the opposite sector.”  Followed masses of information as to the probable make of the guns, the size of shell they preferred, the life-story of the Battery Commander, his favourite flower and author.

The Bosch, always on the alert to snaffle the paying devices of an opposition firm, now has his “I.” staff and Funny Cuts as well.  From time to time we capture a copy and read this sort of thing:—­

“From agonised screeches heard by one of our intrepid airmen while patrolling over the enemy’s lines yesterday, it is evident that the brutal and relentless British are bayonetting their prisoners.”

A Highland Division, whose star pipers were holding a dirge and lament contest on that date, are now ticking off the hours to the next offensive.

The Antrims had a cordon bleu by the name of Michael O’Callagan.  He was a sturdy rogue, having retreated all the way from Mons, and subsequently advanced all the way back to the Yser with a huge stock-pot on his back, from which he had furnished mysterious stews to all comers, at all hours, under any conditions.  For this, and for the fact that he could cook under water, and would turn out hot meals when other chefs were committing suicide, much was forgiven him, but he was prone to look upon the vin when it was rouge and was habitually coated an inch thick with a varnish of soot and pot-black.  One morning he calmly hove himself over the parapet and, in spite of the earnest attentions of Hun snipers, remained there long enough to collect sufficient debris to boil his dixies.  Next day the Bosch Funny Cuts flared forth scareheads:—­

    “SAVAGES ON THE SOMME.

“The desperate and unprincipled British are employing black cannibal Zulus in the defence of their system.  Yesterday one of them, a chief of incredibly depraved appearance, was observed scouting in the open.”

The communique ended with a treatise on the Zulu, its black man-eating habits, and an exhortation to “our old Brandenburgers” not to be dismayed.