Undoubtedly that Captain has a sense of the ridiculous.  I like the man.  Anyone who could, on the spur of the moment, describe the steward as the munitionnaire deserves to rank as one of the world’s humourists.  But Prior is apparently in no condition to see a joke.  He says he will have the munitionnaire instantly bringing in his hand “un verre d’eau de vie.”

I was really sorry that in the bustle of embarking I lost sight of Prior and therefore could not witness the meeting between him and the Captain.  It would have made me happy for the whole day.

The crossing was prolonged, for we took a zig-zag course to avoid any little remembrances Fritz might have left us in the form of mines.  When we were nearing land I saw Prior again.  He was stretched out on a deck-chair and looked up with a ghastly smile as he caught sight of me.

“Hullo, you’re alone!” I said rather cruelly.  “Is this the stage where the Captain goes to find the munitionnaire?”

Then he spoke, but it was not in the words of the phrase-book.  It was in clear, concise, unmistakable English.

“Can you tell me,” he asked, and behind his words lay a suggestion of quiet force of despair, “about what hour of the day or night this cursed boat is likely to get to Boolong?”

* * * * *

    “Evens are moving rapidly in connection with the plan by
    the Government, announced only yesterday, to call a national
    industrial conference.”—­Daily Paper.

We are glad the odds are not against it.

* * * * *

Notice in a German shop-window (British zone):—­

    “Jon con have jour SAFETY RAZOR BLADES reset, throug hare
    experient workman any System.”

The Germans seem to be getting over their dislike to British steel.

* * * * *

COMMERCIAL COMFORT.

    ["Mines are spottily good.  Oils maintain a healthy
    undertone.”—­Stock Exchange Report.]

  O welcome message of the tape! 
    O words of comfortable cheer! 
  You bring us promise of escape
    Into a balmier atmosphere;
  Though Ireland with sedition boils
    And shrieks aloud, “Ourselves Alone”;
  Still mines are good in spots, and oils
    Maintain a healthy undertone.

  Though dismal Jeremiahs wail
    Of Bolshevists within our gates,
  And, though the Master of The M**l
    In sad seclusion vegetates,
  The rising tide of gloom recoils
    Once the inspiring news is known
  That mines are good in spots, and oils
    Maintain a healthy undertone.

  An over-sanguine mood is wrong
    And ought to be severely banned;
  Yet spots, if good, cannot belong
    To the pernicious leopard brand;
  But no such reservation spoils
    The sequel; doubt is overthrown
  By the explicit statement, “Oils
    Maintain a healthy undertone.”