Shortly afterwards the little steamer whistled again and left the quay.

Frederick remained silent for some time as befits a man who has saved a life, and then arose to have a look at Coleopteron and doubtless to make himself better known to the little hero; but to his pained surprise Coleopteron was not to be found.  All over that palm he searched in vain and on the floor; then suddenly he emitted a gurgling sound and I saw that he was in the grip of deep emotion.  There was a look on his face I had never seen before, and I anxiously asked him what had happened.  For some time he could not speak, but stood gazing vacantly into space.  At last, with parched lips, he spoke.

“Look in the milk-jug!” he said, and sank into his chair.

For a moment I thought that Frederick had been poisoned, and then I realised the truth, for there in the hot milk floated the corpse of Coleopteron.

“Why did he do it?” pleaded Frederick with a break in his voice.

“Because,” I replied, “you hadn’t the sense to realise that he was staking his all on catching that boat, and, instead of helping him, you brought him back to where he started from.”

* * * * *

Early the next morning, at Frederick’s desire, we left Buda-Pesth en route for the Swiss Frontier.  It was impossible, if he was to retain his reason, to stay longer in a city that had for him such tragic associations.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  THE PEACE QUEUE.

AUSTRIA (to Germany). “GET A MOVE ON!”

BULGARIA.  “IT’S NO GOOD HAGGLING; WE’VE ALL GOT TO HAVE IT.”

TURKEY.  “WELL, I’M LAST, AND I DON’T CARE HOW LONG ANYBODY TAKES.”]

* * * * *

[Illustration:  Temporary Officer (in department which they have forgotten to close down). “DASH IT!  I DON’T SEE WHY WE SHOULDN’T GET UNEMPLOYMENT PAY.”]

* * * * *

A CAPITAL OUTLAY.

It was, in a sense, mutual.  We had chickens; the chickens had us.  On the other hand, they had the best of the bargain.  We kept them; and they did not keep us.

My aunt insisted that we must keep chickens, and you know my aunt.

Pardon!  You don’t know my aunt.  She is an elderly maiden lady who “keeps house” for me.  She is eminently practical—­theoretically speaking.

She insisted.  “With eggs at eightpence it’s a sin and a shame not to keep hens in war-time.”

I urged that the food would cost a good many eightpences—­in war-time.

Her reply was “Pshaw!” (She really does say “Pshaw”—­and means it.) “Pshaw! they will live on kitchen scraps.”

We consulted Nibletts.  He has a local reputation as a chicken expert, mainly, I believe, because he’s a butcher.  He recommended a breed called Wild Oats (by which he meant, I discovered, Wyandottes).