“’You carry on ‘ere,’ I says to the feller that was with me; ‘I’m goin’ for’ard a minute.’

“‘Arf a minute, an’ I was in my old bunk; an’ there was the cache all right, just like I left it.”

He paused dramatically; I supposed it was for histrionic effect, but it lasted so long that I said, “And so I suppose you sent the ring to the girl after all?”

“Oh! ’er!” he said, with an air of surprise, “I’ve forgot ’er name and all about ’er, only that she ‘ad a brother in one o’ them monkey-boats of ELDER DEMPSTER’S—­’e ’ad the biggest thirst I ever struck.”

“But the ring?” I said.  “I suppose it was there all right?”

He stopped his pipe down with his thumb, with an enigmatical expression.

“That’s where the bloomin’ coincidence come in,” he said; “it weren’t.”

C.F.S.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  Colonel (to private told off to act as caddie).  “NOW I HOPE YOU KNOW SOMETHING ABOUT IT.  THE LAST MAN I HAD PUT ME RIGHT OFF.  HAVE YOU EVER HANDLED CLUBS BEFORE?”

Private.  “NOT SINCE I PLAYED IN THE AMATEUR CHAMPIONSHIP, SIR.” (Colonel is put off again.)]

* * * * *

“Miss ——­, the World-renounced Teacher of Dancing.”—­Southern Standard.

Another victim of the War.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  Major-General (addressing the men before practising an attack behind the lines).  “I WANT YOU TO UNDERSTAND THAT THERE IS A DIFFERENCE BETWEEN A REHEARSAL, AND THE REAL THING.  THERE ARE THREE ESSENTIAL DIFFERENCES:  FIRST, THE ABSENCE OF THE ENEMY.  NOW (turning to the Regimental Sergeant-Major) WHAT IS THE SECOND DIFFERENCE?”

Sergeant-Major.  “THE ABSENCE OF THE GENERAL, SIR.”]

* * * * *

TO TOWSER.

  No pampered pound of peevish fluff
  That goggles from a lady’s muff
  Art thou, my Towser.  In the Park
  Thy form occasions no remark
  Unless it be a friendly call
  From soldiers walking in the Mall,
  Or the impertinence of pugs
  Stretched at their ease on carriage rugs. 
  For thou art sturdy and thy fur
  Is rougher than the prickly burr,
  Thy manners brusque, thy deep “bow wow”
  (Inherited, but Lord knows how!)
  Far other than the frenzied yaps
  That emanate from ladies’ laps,
  Thou art, in fact, of doggy size
  And hast the brown and faithful eyes,
  So full of love, so void of blame,
  That fill a master’s heart with shame
  Because he knows he never can
  Be more a dog and less a man. 
  No champion of a hundred shows,
  The prey of every draught that blows,
  Art thou; in fact thy charms present
  The earmarks of a mixed descent. 
  And, though too proud to start a fight
  With every cur that looms in sight,