A breathless body cast itself down beside the now completely mesmerised Albert:  “We ain’t ‘arf upset the blinkin’ beehive.  Lumme! it’s—­”

The prone figure suddenly became silent, gave a convulsive kick or two and rolled over towards the man who still lived.

It was sufficient.  Something seemed to draw very tense in Albert’s brain and his body reeled into action.

Blindly and without coherent thought he ran shouting across the field, stumbling and falling over the slippery and uneven surface, but always picking himself up and flinging his body onward into the unknown.

A subaltern, who was examining a luminous watch, received him at the charge as he fell into an English first-line trench.  They struggled wildly together in the mud to the accompaniment of startling language on the part of the subaltern.

Then Albert, having reached his limit of endurance, had the supreme tact to faint.

A little later, in a well-found dug-out, the patient was refreshing himself with copious draughts of brandy.

“Who are you, and what the devil are you doing here?” asked the still indignant officer.

Albert did not hesitate longer than it takes to swallow.

“Lorst me way, I ’ave, Sir.  I’m with X 33, attached to Mechanical Transport, an’ if I ain’t back pretty quick my mate ’ull fair ’ave a bloomin’ fit.”

* * * * *

As was predicted by the sagacious man of oil, the mud upon the ——­ road is slowly climbing towards the axles, but in spite of this and sundry other drawbacks it would be hard to find a more contented spirit than that of Private Albert Snape, A.S.C. (M.T.).

* * * * *

LIONS AT PLAY.

BY A SUBALTERN.

The Colonel rustles his newspaper, smites it into shape with a mighty fist, rips it across in a futile endeavour to fold it accurately, and, casting it furiously aside in a crumpled mass, says, after the manner of all true War Lords, “Umph.”  Whereupon the Ante-Room as one man takes cover.

The Colonel then turns cumbrously in his chair, permitting his eye to rove round the room in search of the unwary prey.  He smiles cynically at the intense concentration of the Auction parties; winces at the renewed and unnatural efforts of those who make music; glares unamiably at the feverish book-worms, and suddenly breaks into little chuckles of satisfaction.  The Ante-Room peers cautiously round to discover the identity of the unfortunate victim, and chuckles in its turn.  The Adjutant, checked in his stealthy retreat, hastens back, arranges the table and chess-board, pokes the fire with unnecessary energy, and sits down.  At once the Ante-Room abandons its cover.