“Oh, dry up, you two, and leave it to the winning-post to decide,” said William.

“By the way, where is the winning-post?”

“The winning-post,” we echoed.  “Yes, where is he?”

“Begging your pardon, Sir,” came the voice of the Mess orderly, “but if you was referring to Mister MacTavish he went home to bed half-an-hour ago.”

PATLANDER.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  Potential President of the Royal Academy. “AND HERE, AUNTIE, WE GET THE SIDE ELEVATION.”

Auntie. “HOW DELIGHTFULLY THOROUGH!  I’D NO IDEA THAT ARCHITECTS DID THE SIDES AS WELL.”]

* * * * *

    ANOTHER IMPENDING APOLOGY.

    “A sub-department of Scotland Yard ... which looks after Kings
    and visiting potentates, Cabinet Ministers and Suffragettes,
    spies, anarchists, and other ‘undesirables.’”—­Daily Paper.

* * * * *

    “The custodian smothered the ball, and after a Ruby scrimmage
    the City goal escaped.”—­Provincial Paper.
A much prettier word than the other.

* * * * *

    “Teacher (juniors); L1 monthly.”—­Advt. in Liverpool Paper.

Who says there are no prizes in the teaching profession?

* * * * *

[Illustration:  OUR ARTIST GIVES HIS MODEL AN IDEA OF THE GRACE AND BEAUTY OF THE POSE HE REQUIRES OF HER.]

  REVANCHE.

  When I had seen ten thousand pass me by
    And waved my arms and wearied of hallooing,
  “Ho, taxi-meter!  Taxi-meter, hi!”
    And they hied on and there was nothing doing;
  When I was sick of counting dud by dud
    Bearing I know not whom—­or coarse carousers,
  Or damsels fairer than the moss-rose bud—­
  And still more sick at having bits of mud
      Daubed on my new dress-trousers;

  I went to dinner by the Underground
    And every time the carriage stopped or started
  Clung to my neighbour very tightly round
    The neck till at Sloane Square his collar parted. 
  I saw my hostess glancing at my socks,
    Surprised perhaps at so much clay’s adherence
  And, still unnerved by those infernal shocks,
  Said, “I was working in my window-box;
      Excuse my soiled appearance.”

  But in the morn I found a silent square
    And one tall house with all the windows shuttered,
  The mansion of the Marquis of Mayfair,
    And “Here shall be the counter-stroke,” I muttered;
  “Shall not the noble Marquis and his kin
    Make feast to-night in his superb refectory,
  And then go on to see ‘The Purple Sin’? 
  They shall.”  I sought a taxi-garage in
      The Telephone Directory.