She is to be handed back to her owners and will presumably return to the more peaceful occupation of deep-sea fishing.  It will be strange to think of her still labouring away out there on the Nor’-East Rough whilst we who have shared her trials so long are following once more the less arduous ways of the land.  If she prove as eager in the pursuit of her undersea quarry as she was on the trail of the U-Boat I would not change places with the cod and haddocks of the North Sea for the prize-money of an Admiral.  Good luck to her!

* * * * *

    “[Printed upside-down:  Pilot] fully qualified, wishes to obtain
    appointment, with Flying School or Aircraft Firm.”—­Technical
    Paper.

Judging by his advertisement he is an expert in looping.

* * * * *

“Station Officer R.D.  Coleman, who has been for ten years in charge of the Lewisham station of the Metropolitan Fire Brigade (in which he has served 282 years), retired on Tuesday last.  Sub-officer Seadden was recently the medium of presenting to him a marble-cased timepiece and ornaments from the officers and men of the brigade.”—­Local Paper.

But what use will the clock be to a man for whom time obviously stands still?

* * * * *

[Illustration:  The dawn of intelligence in Berlin.

First Teuton.  “After all it seems that our ever-victorious army was
beaten in the field.  Are we down-hearted?”

Second Teuton.  “Ja!”]

* * * * *

The Mud larks.

Only a few months ago our William and his trusty troop swooped upon a couple of Bosch field batteries floundering in a soft patch on the far side of Tournai.  William afflicted their gun teams with his little Hotchkiss gadget, then prepared to gallop them.  He had unshipped his knife and was offering his sergeant long odds on scoring first “pink,” when our two squadron trumpeters trotted out from a near-by coppice and solemnly puffed “Cease Fire”—­for all the world as if it was the end of a field-day on the Plain and time to trot home to tea.  William was furious.

“There y’are,” he snorted.  “Just because I happened to have a full troop out for once, all my horses fit, no wire or trenches in the way, the burst of the season ahead and the only chance I’ve had in four and a-half years of doing a really artistic bit of carving they must go and stop the ruddy War.  Poo! ain’t that the bally Army all over?  Bah!  I’ve done with it.”

So he filled in the bare patches in every Demobilisation Form Z 15 he could lay pen to.