“That’s it.  Just say what you would write down yourself.”

He cleared his throat.

“DEAR WIFE,” he resumed, “the wounds is ... awful, not letting me write at all.  The one in my back is as long as your arm, and they says it will heal quicker than the one in my knee, which has two tubes in which they squirts strong-smelling stuff through.  The foot is a pretty sight, as big as half a melon, and I doubts ever being able to put it to the ground again, though they says I shall.  I gets very stiff at nights and the pain sometimes is cruel, but they gives me a prick with the morphia needle then which makes me dream something beautiful....”

There was a pause while he indulged in a smiling reverie.

“Perhaps we have said enough about your pains,” I ventured, when, returning from his visions, he puckered his brows in fresh thought.  “Your wife might be frightened if—­”

“Not her,” he interrupted proudly.  “She’s a rare good nurse herself, and it would take more than that to turn her up.”

I shook my pen; he shifted his head a little and continued:—­

“DEAR WIFE,—­If you could see my shoulder dressed of a morning you would laugh.  They cuts out little pieces of lint like a picture puzzle to fit the places, and I’ve got a regular map of Blighty all down my arm; but that’s not so bad as my back, which I cannot see and which the wound is as long—­”

I blotted the sheet and turned over, and Private Brown eyed the space left for further cheerful communications.

“Shall I leave this for you to finish?” I suggested, thinking of tender messages difficult to dictate.  “Your fingers may be better after tea, or perhaps to-morrow morning.”

“That’s all right, Miss.  There’s nothing more to put except my name, if you’ll just say, “Good-bye, dear wife, hoping this finds you well as it leaves me at present.”

* * * * *

FAIR WARNING.

    “A POPULAR CONCERT WILL BE HELL IN THE PORTEOUS HALL, On
    Friday, 2nd November.”—­Scotch Paper.

* * * * *

CURRAGH MEETING.

Judea . . . . . . . . . . .   E.M.  Quirke  1
Elfterion . . . . . . . . . . .   M. Wing  2
Tut Ttlddddddrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr aY
Tut Tut . . . . . . . . . . . .  J. Dines  3

    Provincial Paper.

  From which it is to be inferred
  The angry printer backed the third.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  “WELL, UPON MY WORD!  AFTER ALL THE TROUBLE I HAD TO GET A QUARTER OF A POUND OF BUTTER, THE COOK’S SENT UP MARGARINE.  I SHOULD HATE THE MAIDS TO GO SHORT, BUT I DO THINK WE OUGHT TO SHARE THINGS.”]

* * * * *

THE ULTIMATE OUTRAGE.