The stranger snorted contemptuously.  “You are good at explanations.  Perhaps you can explain this.”

Mr. Jones looked down at the baby’s coat.  To his amazement he beheld a crown and monogram embroidered on it.

“That,” he replied, taking refuge in fatuity, “is the laundry mark.”

“Come, come, enough of this fooling.  Give me the child.”

Mr. Jones took no notice.

“Give me the child, I say.”

Mr. Jones paled but did not move.

“Very good, then.”  The stranger turned to his attendants.  “Rupert, Rudolph,” he said.

Two revolver barrels flashed out.

Mr. Jones stood up hastily, the child clutched tightly in his arms.  “What do you mean by threatening me like this?  What right have you to the child?  I never heard of such a thing; I shall inform the police.”

“Porkhound,” yelled the stranger, “do you defy me? me, Count Achtung von Eisenbahn?  Give me the babe.  I must have him.  I will have him.  He is ours—­our Prince Fritz, the last of the Hohenzollerns.”

The great moment had come.  Jones’s face lit up.  Death—­a hero’s death—­might claim him, but he would make democracy safe for the world.

“Last of the Hohenzollerns!” he shouted; “then, by Jove, this is going to be the last of him.”  And with a yell of triumph he hurled the infant out into the night.

From the child in its trajectory came a long ear-splitting shriek, followed by a gentle wailing.

Mr. Jones sat up and blinked his eyes.  The professorial gentleman was still in the far corner; the lady was still opposite him; the child was wailing softly.

The lady smiled.  “I’m afraid baby has broken your nap.  A passing express frightened him.”

“Not at all,” murmured Mr. Jones incoherently, searching for his novel, the one solace left amid the ruin of his dreams.

“Pardon me,” said the lady, “but if you are looking for your book you threw it out of the window just before you woke up.”

Mr. Jones sank back resignedly.  His glory had gone, his book had gone.

Once again he settled himself in his corner to sleep—­perchance to dream.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  “JACKY, DEAR, YOUR HANDS ARE FRIGHTFULLY DIRTY.”

“NOT ‘FRIGHTFULLY,’ MUMMY.  A LOT OF THAT’S SHADING.”]

* * * * *

STRANGE BEHAVIOUR OF THE GERMAN ENVOYS.

    “Five minutes later the German plenipotentiaries reappeared,
    dived into Allied representatives, emerged, jumped into their
    car and drove off.”—­Dublin Evening Mail.

* * * * *

CHANT ROYAL OF CRICKET.