My chance came the other day.  I was strolling down Regent Street when three N.C.O.’s, including a sergeant, passed me.  They did not salute.  I might have been a civilian for all the notice they took of me.  Ha! my hour had come.

Turning, I hastened after them.

“Sergeant, a word.”

They stopped and the Sergeant asked if I was speaking to him.

“Have you ever heard of the little word ‘Sir,’ Sergeant?” I asked severely.  “Evidently not.  However I pass over that.  But a moment ago you went by me without saluting.  Deliberately—­inexcusably.  I was as close to you as I am now.”

“But how—­” began the Sergeant.

“Not a word,” I cut him short.  “Not a word.  You know perfectly well that you have neglected your duty grossly.  Now tell me.  Is it your own idea to drop saluting, or has Mr. CHURCHILL had a word in your ear?” (Sarcasm is my strong point.)

“But look here—­” said the Sergeant, rather red in the face.

“Do not interrupt,” I thundered, warming to my work.  “How, I ask, do you expect the ordinary soldier to salute when you slink past officers—­you, who ought to be a shining example?  Now I am going to report—­”

Something in the Sergeant’s eye, which seemed to be travelling over my person generally, made me suddenly glance down at myself, and it was then that, horror-struck, I realised that I was wearing for the first time my new ten-guinea suit.

As I faded away the Sergeant clicked his heels and saluted smartly.

* * * * *

THE STRUGGLE FOR LIFE.

    “Lady will exchange clothing, self, little girl, for farm butter,
    eggs, jam.”—­The Lady.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  Infuriated Italian (who has recently purchased a British Army horse). “FAIR WORDS DID I SPEAK HIM, SAYING, ’PEDRO, AVANTI PIANISSIMO,’ AND—­BEHOLD!”]

* * * * *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

(By Mr. Punch’s Staff of Learned Clerks.)

Within The Rim (COLLINS) is, I suppose, the last of the posthumous volumes of Mr. HENRY JAMES.  It is a short book, produced with the beauty that I have already grown to associate with the imprint of its publishers, and containing five occasional pieces.  Of these the first, which gives its title to the whole, is the most considerable:  an essay of very moving poignancy, telling the emotion of the writer during the earliest months of the War, in “the most beautiful English summer conceivable,” months that he “was to spend so much of in looking over from the old rampart of a little high-perched Sussex town at the bright blue streak of the Channel ... and staring at the bright mystery beyond the rim of the farthest opaline reach.”  In the thoughts to which HENRY JAMES here gives expression one may find much of the love and sympathy for this country