Granny.  “ABSOLUTELY PRICELESS, OLD THING.  ALWAYS THOUGHT THAT CHILD WAS SOME NIB.”]

* * * * *

THE MUD LARKS.

Albert Edward and I are on detachment just now.  I can’t mention what job we are on because HINDENBURG is listening.  He watches every move made by Albert Edward and me and disposes his forces accordingly.  Now and again he forestalls us, now and again he don’t.  On the former occasions he rings up LUDENDORFF, and they make a night of it with beer and song; on the latter he pushes the bell violently for the old German god.

The spot Albert Edward and I inhabit just now is very interesting; things happen all round us.  There is a tame balloon tied by a string to the back garden, an ammunition column on either flank and an infantry battalion camped in front.  Aeroplanes buzz overhead in flocks and there is a regular tank service past the door.  One way and another our present location fairly teems with life; Albert Edward says it reminds him of London.  To heighten the similarity we get bombed every night.

Promptly after Mess the song of the bomb-bird is heard.  The searchlights stab and slash about the sky like tin swords in a stage duel; presently they pick up the bomb-bird—­a glittering flake of tinsel—­and the racket begins.  Archibalds pop, machine guns chatter, rifles crack, and here and there some optimistic sportsman browns the Milky Way with a revolver.  As Sir I. NEWTON’S law of gravity is still in force and all that goes up must come down again, it is advisable to wear a parasol on one’s walks abroad.

In view of the heavy lead-fall Albert Edward and I decided to have a dug-out.  We dug down six inches and struck water in massed formation.  I poked a finger into the water and licked it.  “Tastes odd,” said I, “brackish or salt or something.”

“We’ve uncorked the blooming Atlantic, that’s what,” said Albert Edward; “cork it up again quickly or it’ll bob up and swamp us.”  That done, we looked about for something that would stand digging into.  The only thing we could find was a molehill, so we delved our way into that.  We are residing in it now, Albert Edward, Maurice and I. We have called it “Mon Repos,” and stuck up a notice saying we are inside, otherwise visitors would walk over it and miss us.

The chief drawback to “Mon Repos” is Maurice.  Maurice is the proprietor by priority, a mole by nature.  Our advent has more or less driven him into the hinterland of his home and he is most unpleasant about it.  He sits in the basement and sulks by day, issuing at night to scrabble about among our boots, falling over things and keeping us awake.  If we say “Boo!  Shoo!” or any harsh word to him he doubles up the backstairs to the attic and kicks earth over our faces at three-minute intervals all night.