The youth, his head turned by material success, sought to consolidate his social position by a marriage above his station, and dared to aspire to the hand of a full piano-tuner’s daughter.

The old man tried gentle dissuasion at first, but the obstinate pertinacity of the stripling made him gradually lose patience.  He was a hale and hearty veteran, and when the situation came to a climax his method of dealing with it was stern and thorough.

Seizing the hapless Feodor during an evening call he interned him in the vitals of a tuneless Baby Grand, and for three hours played on him CHOPIN’S polonaise in A flat major, with the loud pedal down.  On his release Feodor had lost his reason and rushed to the nearest police-station to ask to be sent to the Front immediately.  His object, he explained, was to end the War.  The Bulgar authorities thought the plan worth trying and sent him off as a comitadjus; and to these circumstances we were indebted for his society.

Every day we saw more and more of Feodor, and we grew to love him.  As to sniping him now—­the idea never entered our beads.  Accordingly, while a deafening strafe proceeded daily on both sides of us, we remained in a state of idyllic peace and hatelessness.

Then arrived the cruel day when the Brass Hats came round, and a large and important General asked us—­

“But are you being offensive enough to the enemy in front?”

“Offensive to Feodor, Sir?  Impossible!”

“You must be offensive,” he rejoined.  “I don’t think there is sufficient hate in this part of the line.”

It was this unfortunate moment that Feodor chose to step on to his parapet and call out cheerfully to the Great Man—­

“Good morning, John_ee_!”

For one tense moment I thought the General would burst.  By an effort he pulled himself together, however, and shouted to my troops in a voice of thunder—­

“At That Person in front—­fifteen rounds rapid.  Fire!”

We had to do it, of course, and, although I think most of our sights were a little high, accidents will happen.  Feodor emitted one unearthly shriek, and his time back towards home would, if it had been taken, make a world’s championship record.

I don’t think he was physically hurt; but his poor trousers were badly punctured!...

Our friend, Jerry, may not be lost, but he is certainly gone behind.

  Yours always,
  PETER.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  Lady (who has been photographed for passport).  “THIS PHOTOGRAPH OF ME IS BEALLY DREADFUL.  WHY, I LOOK LIKE A GORILLA!”

Photographer.  “I’M VERY SORRY, LADY; BUT, YOU SEE, THE GOVERNMENT WON’T ALLOW US TO TOUCH UP ANY PASSPORT PHOTOS.”]

* * * * *

    “From the Pentland Firth to Norway, the eyes of the British Fleet are
    those of Nunquam.”—­Yorkshire Post.