“Sorry, Sir,” said the Corporal in the Officers’ Payment Issue Department at 15.59, “the gloves were sold to another officer while you were away.”

One of the PUNCH brigade.

* * * * *

On half rations.

    “Two officers will be received as paying guests.  Comfortable
    home.  Treated as one of the family.”—­Daily Paper.

The italics emphasize our own feeling with regard to this niggardly arrangement.

* * * * *

“V.A.D.—­Required for Shell-shock Hospital under B.R.C.S., Piano, Billiard Table and Gramophone.  Will any hospital closing down and having same for sale, kindly communicate with Secretary.”—­Times.

We do not know what sort of work the V.A.D. is expected to do under the piano and billiard table, but we presume that her consent would be required, and that she would not be sold, so to speak, over her own head.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  THE TURN OF THE TIDE.

JOHN BULL.  “I DON’T SAY I’M QUITE COMFORTABLE YET, BUT I CERTAINLY DO
SEEM TO BE GETTING IT A LITTLE LESS IN THE NECK.”]

* * * * *

[Illustration:  SCENE.—­AMATEUR THEATRICAL REHEARSAL.

Author.  “NOT SO MUCH ‘GAGGING,’ MY LAD.  JUST SPEAK MY LINES, AND THEN WAIT FOR THE LAUGH.”

Tommy (on short leave).  “WHAT!  AND RISK C.B.  FOR OVERSTAYING MY LEAVE?”]

* * * * *

ON THE RHINE.

I.

“Fee-Fi-Fo-Fum, I am a bold and infamous Hun, I am, I am.”

We are obliged to repeat this continually to ourselves in order to present the stern and forbidding air which is supposed to mark our dealings with the inhabitants.  For, look you, we have usurped the place of the Royal Jocks on the “right flank of the British Army,” and are on outpost duty, with our right resting on the bank of the Rhine, while in front the notice-boards, “Limit of Cologne Bridgehead,” stare at us.

No longer are we the pleasant, easy-going, pay-through-the-nose people that we were.  No longer does our daily routine include the smile for Mademoiselle, the chipping of Madame, or the half-penny for the little ones.  No, we steel ourselves steadily to the grim task entrusted to us, and struggle to offer a perfect picture of stolid indifference to anybody’s welfare but our own.  “Fee-fi-fo-fum.”

What does Thomas think of it all?  Well, to tell the truth, I haven’t caught him thinking very much about it.  Gloating seems foreign to his nature somehow, and I don’t think he will ever make a really good Hun.  He is rather like a child who for four years has been crying incessantly for the moon.  Having got it, he says, “Well, I’m glad I’ve got it; now let’s get on with something else,” and takes not the slightest interest in the silly old moon he has acquired with so much trouble.