Number One, his face is ashen and his knees knock as he runs
  (A curious phenomenon quite rare in Number Ones);
  But on he rushed until he saw the tall brass-hatted Bloke,
  And, nervously saluting, incoherently he spoke:—­
  “Boy Simpkins (Second Class, too!), I’m afraid that you must know, Sir,
  Had the nerve to mutter ‘Blast you!’ to a First-Class C.P.O., Sir.”

  The Bloke turned blue and shivered, then hysterically laughed,
  And hurried, cackling shrilly, to the Owner’s cabin aft;
  There in that awful presence, with lips aghast and pale,
  To the horror-haunted Owner he re-told the horrid tale:—­
  “Boy Simpkins (Second Class, too!), I regret to let you know, Sir,
  Had the face to mutter ‘Blast you!’ to a First-Class C.P.O., Sir!”

  You could almost hear the silence when the flags began to flap
  And the Captain made the signal that destroyed the Admiral’s nap;
  And though I wasn’t there myself beside the great man’s bed
  You all can guess as well as I just what the Owner said:—­“SUBMITTED.
  Boy Simpkins (Second Class, too!), it is thought you ought to know, Sir,
  Has dared to mutter ‘Blast you!’ to a First-Class C.P.O., Sir!”

  The Press Bureau won’t let me mention how the Admiral went
  And told Sir ERIC GEDDES, who informed the Government;
  How the Cabinet, when summoned, found him far too bad to kill,
  So packed him off to Weiringen to valet LITTLE WILL. 
  Boy Simpkins (Second Class, too!) down to history will go
  As the first and last who dared say “Blast” to a First-Class C.P.O.

* * * * *

NOVEL RECONSTRUCTION.

Simmons is a writer of fiction and was a friend of mine.

I used to play billiards with Simmons, to talk to Simmons, but not to read Simmons.

There are limits to friendship.

I met him the other day in a very depressed state.

“Look at these munition workers,” he said.  “See what the Government is doing for them.  Paying them wages all the time that they’re out of work.  What about me?”

“Well, you weren’t on munitions.”

“I have been on intellectual munitions,” replied Simmons.  “And now all my editors write to me, ‘Get away from the War.’  I have to transfer my machinery to peace work.  I have to turn away from the production of the German spy.  Think of it.  I have almost lived on him for years.  I have created hundreds of him during the War.  All my laboriously acquired knowledge of German terms—­like ‘Schweinhund,’ you know—­goes for nothing.  I shall have to make all my villains Bolsheviks.  That will require close study of Russia.  All my old Russian knowledge goes for nothing.  They have abolished the knout and exile to Siberia.  I have to start afresh.

“Then look at my heroes.  I have mastered the second lieutenant.  My typewriter almost automatically writes ‘old top,’ ‘old soul,’ ’old bean,’ ‘old egg.’  All my study of this type is thrown away.  And heroines—­why, I shall have to study dress again.  The hospital nurse is done for; the buxom proportions of the land-girl avail me no more.  My dear fellow, it will be six months before I can deal with women’s costume competently.