complete imitation of a raid can be produced.  A good deal, of course, can be done by any ordinary householder.  “I have had great fun,” one correspondent writes, “with a very deliberate and heavily-striking Dutch clock, which I have lately put against my party-wall.  My neighbour’s family frequently jump up and run for the basement.  When they get used to the thing I shall give the other side a turn.”

* * * * *

THE FIRE-DRILL.

Once a month, as laid down in “Orders for Auxiliary Hospitals for Officers,” or some such document, we practise fire-drill.  This consists of escaping from upper windows by means of precarious canvas chutes.  The only people exempted from this ceremony are Mrs. Ropes—­who watches with great delight from a safe distance—­and Sister, who stands sternly at the top to make sure (a) that those patients who don’t want to go down do go down, and (b) that those patients who do want to go down don’t go down more than once.  No excuses are taken.  The fixed ration is one slither per chute per person.

We had this month’s rehearsal last Tuesday.  The patients were put through it first, Major Stanley—­to his great disgust—­being chosen to lead the way and set his juniors an example.  He was told that it was possible, by sticking out his elbows, to go down as slowly as he liked; but he must have done it wrong somehow, for he disappeared with startling suddenness the instant he let go the window-sill, and almost simultaneously his boots shot out at the other end and doubled Dutton the butler up so badly that he had to be taken away and reinflated.

Haynes, who came next, insisted on first making his dying speech from the window, for, as he pointed out to Sister, when people allowed themselves to be inserted alive into machines of this type there was every likelihood of their reappearing at the other end in the form of sausages.  Seymour handed Sister a bulky package labelled “WILL” before starting, and most of us managed to be mildly humorous in some way or other.

Mrs. Ropes, on the lawn, enjoyed it all immensely; and so did Ansell, who was standing beside her with an air of detachment.  Sister’s eagle eye singled him out.

“Come along, Mr. Ansell,” she called.  “I see you—­your turn next.  No shirking.”

“I’m not in this, Sister,” he answered loftily.

“Oh, indeed!  And why not?”

“Because I sleep on the verandah.  If there’s a fire I simply get out of bed and step into the garden.”

“Oh, no, you don’t,” put in Seymour.  “That would be entirely contrary to regulations.  The official method of escaping from burning buildings is down the official chute.  In case of fire your correct procedure will be to double smartly upstairs, commend your soul to Providence in a soldier-like manner, and toboggan smartly down.”

(Have I mentioned that Seymour is an Adjutant?)

“That’s right, Captain Seymour,” said Sister from above.  “Bring him up under escort if necessary.”