“Well, Gentlemen, as we have been taught in our drill, what the first rank breaks, the rear rank must bandage up.  This would be all very well if our numbers were told by thousands, or even hundreds, instead of tens.  But to-day we must use the bayonet rather than the lancet, the bullet in preference to the pill.”  Stealthy applause followed this observation.  “But be careful.  Common humanity calls upon us to do as little damage as possible.  You know your anatomy sufficiently well to avoid inflicting a wound upon a vital part, and can so arrange that your blows shall incapacitate rather than functionally derange.  And now, my friends, put your instrument-boxes and pharmacopoeias in your haversacks, and draw your swords.  All ready?  Yes!  Then, ’Up, Guards, and at them!’”

With a wild cheer the Royal Regiment of Physicians and Surgeons (which had recently been admitted into the Service on the footing of the Royal Engineers) rushed forward.  It was a beautiful sight to see them performing the most delicate operations in the kindest manner imaginable.  The enemy trembled, wavered, and fled.  In a moment the Royal Regiment had put up their swords and taken out their medical appliances.  Their military duties done, and they were doctors once again, ready to help those who demanded their semi-civilian services.  They had scarcely been engaged in this manner ten minutes when the Surgeon-Field-Marshal-Commanding-in-Chief cantered up to them.  “Men,” he cried, “drop your surgical instruments, and draw your swords.  The enemy are again upon us!  We must take their fort!”

In a moment the Royal Regiment was on the march.  On their way, some of their comrades, wounded by the foe (in a bungling fashion), appealed to them for succour.

“Very Sorry,” replied the Surgeon-Field-Marshal-Commanding-in-Chief, in a tone of commiseration; “very sorry indeed, but we can’t attend to you.  At this moment we are acting in our strictly military capacity!” And the Royal Regiment of Physicians and Surgeons, full of enthusiasm (but in rather loose formation) continued their march to the fort.

* * * * *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

[Illustration:  Night Mare.]

Tourmalin’s Time Cheques, drawn on the bank of eccentric imagination by ANSTEY-GUTHRIE, is well worthy of the author of Vice Versa.  The construction of the story is as artful as it is artistic, but the Baron cannot give his reason for this opinion without jeopardising the reader’s pleasure.  Still the Baron feels pretty certain that when the much-amused and greatly-chuckling but diligent and conscientious peruser of this light-hearted romance arrives at the last few pages, he will frown, rub his eyes, refer back to the very commencement of the story,—­and then?  Will he bless ANSTEY and blow GUTHRIE, or bless GUTHRIE and blow ANSTEY, or will he, being more tickled than ever, rush off to recommend it at once to his best friends,