The question was still unsettled when the warrants arrived.  As time was short it was finally decided that whomsoever he should follow was to be adjudged his future owner.  We climbed ashore and spread out fanwise, looking back and uttering those noises best calculated to incline the unyielding heart of the Menace towards us.  He himself rose from the deck and strolled on to the wharf, where he stood coolly regarding us.  Without emotion his Cyclopean orb directed its gaze from one to another till, midway between the Third Hand and the Second-Engineer, it was observed to irradiate a sudden and unaccustomed luminosity.

“Come along then, Menace,” wheedled the Second.

“Yoicks, old dawg!” exclaimed the Third Hand, patting his knee encouragingly.

But they had misinterpreted their Menace, for in the middle distance, on a pile of timber directly behind the expectant twain, had appeared the sleek person of a sandy cat which proved to be the attraction.  For an instant the Menace stood motionless, his spine bristling and his tail growing stiff; then with a short sharp bark he sprang forward like an arrow from a bow in the direction of the feline objective.  We saw a streak of yellow as she fled for safety and life; a cloud of dust, and the Menace and his quarry disappeared from view.  Faintly from afar floated an eager yelp, telling that the chase was still in full cry.

“Well, sink me,” said the Second-Engineer, “that settles it.”

There were trains to be caught, and so, slowly and sadly, we turned away.

Thus did the Silent Menace, with the rest of his shipmates, bid good-bye to the Auxiliary Patrol.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  A home from home.

President Wilson (quitting America in his Fourteen-League-of-Nations Boots).  “IT’S TIME I WAS GETTING BACK TO A HEMISPHERE WHERE I REALLY AM APPRECIATED.”]

* * * * *

THE ROAD TO THE RHINE.

A LITTLE LOOT.

It was at the time when men still imagined that to be a pivotal man in some way enhanced their chances of being demobilised that an abnormal wave of acquisitiveness passed over us.  Before it passed, I regret to say, it hovered, chiefly on account of the prospect of a speedy return home and the desire to take back some kind of trophy to satisfy the still small voice of inquiry concerning papa and the Great War.

The very first day after we had arrived in the most unimportant village imaginable (our usual luck), Roley, the fattest subaltern on record, lurched into the room and told us of the discovery of a wonderful trainload of abandoned Bosch material, Being a Regular soldier, acquisitiveness runs through his whole being, of course, and he gave us a most glowing account of the wonders to be found.  “Full of things,” he cried, “coal, Bosch beds, field-guns and souvenirs—­hundreds of ’em.”