Admirable work is done, too, by Mr. TOM WOOTTWELL as Bert, the incorrigible amorist, for whom each new girl is “the only girl,” and who has an apparently inexhaustible supply of identity-discs to leave with them as “sooveneers”; and by Mr. SINCLAIR COTTER as Alf, the cynical humourist—­“Where were you eddicated, Eton or Harrod’s?” is one of his best mots—­who spends most of his time in wrestling with an automatic cigar-lighter.  I think it would be only poetical justice if in the concluding scene, when Old Bill comes into his own, the authors were for once to allow Alf to succeed in lighting his “fag.”

Of the many ladies who add charm to the entertainment I can only mention Miss EDMEE DORMEUIL, who as Victoire has an important share in the plot and saves Old Bill’s life; Miss GOODIE REEVE, who sings some capital songs; and Miss PEGGY DORAN, who looks bewitching as an officer of the Woman Workers’ Corps.  The music, arranged by Mr. HERMAN DAREWSKI, is catchy and not uncomfortably original:  and the scenery, designed by Captain BAIRNSFATHER, gives one, I should say, as good an idea of the trenches as one can get without going there.  In fine I would parody Old Bill and say, “If you knows of a better show, go to it!”

L.

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[Illustration:  Perfect stranger (to Jones, who has not forgotten Willie’s birthday). “AIN’T YOU ASHAMED TO GO BATTING THESE DAYS?”]

* * * * *

[Illustration:  “NAH, ALL THEM AS IS WILLIN’ TO COME ALONG O’ ME, PLEASE SIGNIFY THE SAME IN THE USUAL MANNER.  CARRIED UNANIMOUSLY.”]

* * * * *

TO A MODERN MUSE.

  O Metaphasia, peerless maid,
    How can I fitly sing
  The priceless decorative aid
    To dialogue you bring,
  Enabling serious folk, whose brains
    Are commonplace and crude,
  To soar to unimagined planes
    Of sweet ineptitude.

  Changed by your magic, common-sense
    Nonsensical appears,
  And stars of sober influence
    Shoot madly from their spheres. 
  You lure us from the beaten track,
    From minding P.’s and Q.’s,
  To paths where white is always black
    And pies resemble pews.

  Strange beasts, more strange than the giraffe,
    You conjure up to view,
  The flue-box and the forking-calf,
    Unknown at any Zoo;
  And new vocations you unfold,
    Wonder on wonder heaping,
  Hell-banging for the over-bold,
    And toffee-cavern keeping.

  With you we hatch the pasty snipe,
    And all undaunted face
  Huge fish of unfamiliar type—­
    Bush-pike and bubble-dace;
  Or, fired by hopes of lyric fame,
    We deviate from prose,
  And make it our especial aim
    Bun-sonnets to compose.