“Mind yer,” she continued, “I ain’t got nothink to say against the Americans.  They may be the most liberal-’earted gentlemen in the world for all I know.  But it’s the principle of the thing I’m objectin’ to.  It’s a case of kill me quick or cure me to-morrow, and if President WILSON was to talk till next week ’e couldn’t make it no different.  You can’t make a silk sock out of a side of bacon, and that’s true whichever way you look at it.”

“But what steps,” we urged, “does your Association intend to take, Mrs. Bloggins, over this matter?”

“I don’t know nothink about no ’sociations,” said Mrs. Bloggins, “but I do know that we’re all in it, and Mrs. Pledger and Mrs.  ’Uggins, and the rest of ’em, we knows our power and we intends to use it.”

“In what way do you mean?” I said.

She looked at me cunningly.

“Now you’re spyin’.  It’s dirty work and I won’t ’ave it ’ere.  You might be the Proctor hisself for all I cares—­you’re not going to ferret nothink out of me.”

Hereupon she rose with great dignity and plainly indicated that the interview was at an end.

* * * * *

    La Haute Cuisine.

    “Cook; French; age 38; wages L25-L30 week.”—­Morning Post.

* * * * *

TO THE DEATH.

    [According to the papers, two Frenchmen have agreed to fight a
    duel in aeroplanes.]

“Cauliflower!” shrieked Gaspard Volauvent across the little table in the estaminet.  His face bristled with rage.

“Serpent!” replied Jacques Rissolo, bristling with equal dexterity.

The two stout little men glared ferociously at each other.  Then Jacques picked up his glass and poured the wine of the country over his friend’s head.

“Drown, serpent!” he said magnificently.  He beckoned to the waiter.  “Another bottle,” he said.  “My friend has drunk all this.”

Gaspard removed the wine from his whiskers with the local paper and leant over the table towards Jacques.

“This must be wiped out in blood,” he said slowly.  “You understand?”

“Perfectly,” replied the other.  “The only question is whose.”

“Name your weapons,” said Gaspard Volauvent grandly.

“Aeroplanes,” replied Jacques Rissole after a moment’s thought.

“Bah!  I cannot fly.”

“Then I win,” said Jacques simply.

The other looked at him in astonishment.

“What!  You fly?”

“No; but I can learn.”

“Then I will learn too,” said Gaspard with dignity.  “We meet—­in six months?”

“Good.”  Jacques pointed to the ceiling.  “Say three thousand feet up.”

“Three thousand four hundred,” said Gaspard for the sake of disagreeing.

“After all, that is for our seconds to arrange.  My friend Epinard of the Roullens Aerodrome will act for me.  He will also instruct me how to bring serpents to the ground.”