“No, it isn’t.  Which dinner are you thinking of?”

With the sweat pouring down his face, both hands now clasping the telephone—­his right being completely numbed—­he called upon the gods to witness the foolishness of mortals.  Suddenly a hideous cackle of mosquito-laughter filtered through and, by some diabolical contrivance of the signals, the tiny voice swelled into a bellow close to his ear.

“If you really want to know, old Possum,” it said, “the raid took place two hours ago!”

“I hope,” said Possum, much relieved, but speaking with concentrated venom, “I h-hope you may be strafed with boiling—­ Are you there?” Being assured that he was he slapped his receiver twice, and, much gratified at the unprintable expression of the twice-stunned-one at the other end, went to tell the General—­who, he found, had gone to bed and was fast asleep.

* * * * *

    “The customary oats were administered to the new
    Judge.”—­Perthshire Constitutional.

There had been some fear, we understand, that owing to the food shortage he would have to be content with thistles.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  Stout Lady (discussing the best thing to do in an air-raid).  “WELL, I ALWAYS RUNS ABOUT MESELF.  YOU SEE, AS MY ’USBAND SEZ, AN’ VERY REASONABLE TOO, A MOVIN’ TARGIT IS MORE DIFFICULT TO ’IT.”]

* * * * *

THE OLD FORMULA.

Private Brown lay upon his pillows thoughtfully sucking the new pencil given him by his mate in the next bed.  Propped against the cradle that covered his shattered knee was a pad, to which a sheet of paper had been fixed, and he was about to write a letter to his wife.

It was plainly to be an effort, for apart from the fact that he was never a scholar there was the added uncertainty of his long disused right hand to be reckoned with; but at last he grasped the pencil with all the firmness he could muster and began:—­

“DEAR WIFE,—­I got your letter about Jim he ought to gone long ago, shirking I calls it.  This hospital is very nice and when you come down from London youll see all the flowers and the gramophone which is a fair treat.  My wounds is slow and I often gets cramp.”

No sooner was the fatal word written than the fingers of his right hand began to stiffen, the pencil fell upon the bed, then rolled dejectedly to the floor, where the writer said it might stay for all he cared.

“You must let me finish the letter,” said I, when his hand had been rubbed and tucked away in a warm mitten.

“Thank you, Miss; I was getting on nicely, and there’s not much more to say,” he returned ruefully, scanning the wavering lines before him.

“Well, shall I go on for a bit and let you wind up,” said I, unscrewing my pen and taking the pad on my knee.

“Me telling you what to put like?” he asked with a look of pleased relief.