“Have you anything to say for yourself?” asked the officer sternly.

“No, Sir, only that I am innocent,” answered the man.  He held his head high, almost defiantly.  I could not but admire his courageous bearing, and yet there was an air of unreality about the whole thing.  I felt almost as if I were dreaming it, but I knew that this was not a dream.

“The evidence against you is overwhelming,” said the officer.  “I have no alternative but to sentence you to death.  The sentence will be carried out at dawn.  Remove the prisoner.”

The seaman took a step forward.  For a moment he seemed to be struggling with himself, anxious to speak, yet forcing himself to silence.  Then he bowed his head, and, turning, placed himself between the guards and was marched away.

The officer sighed.  “It’s a bad business,” he said.  “He’s the best man I ever had on my ship.”

He was speaking to himself, and again I had that strange sense of unreality, as indeed I well might, for this was the Third Act of True to the Death, a melodrama in the pavilion at the end of the pier.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  THE RETORT CELESTIAL.

[China has threatened to break off relations with the German Government on account of its barbarity.  It will be recalled that the KAISER once designed an allegorical picture entitled “The Yellow Peril."]]

* * * * *

[Illustration:  SAUCE FOR THE GANDER.

Grocer.  “A LITTLE SUGAR WITH MY TART, PLEASE.”

Waitress (late grocer’s assistant).  “CERTAINLY, SIR, IF YOU WILL ALSO TAKE MUSTARD, PEPPER, SALT, YORKSHIRE RELISH AND SALAD DRESSING.”]

* * * * *

WEATHER-VANES.

It was 2 A.M.  The mosquitoes were singing their nightly chorus, and the situation reports were coming in from the battalions in the line.  With his hair sizzling in the flame of the candle, the Brigade Orderly Officer who was on duty for the night tried to decipher the feathery scrawl on the pink form.

“Situation normal A-A-A wind moderate N.E.,” it read.

“Great Scott!” said the O.O.  “North-East!” (Hun gas waits upon a wind with East in it).  “Give me the message book.”

Laboriously he wrote out warnings to the battalions and machine gun sections, etc., under the Brigade’s control.  Then he turned to the next message.

“Situation normal A-A-A wind light S.W.”

“South-West?” said the O.O. blankly, viewing his now useless handiwork.  “Which way is the wind then?”

The orderly went out to see, and returned presently with a moistened forefinger and the information that it was “blowing acrossways, leastways it seemed like it.”  The O.O. got out of his little wire bed, searched in his pyjamas for the North Star, and, finally deciding that if there was any wind at all (which was doubtful) it was due South, reported it as such.  The responsibility incurred kept him awake for some time, but when the Brigade on the right flank reported a totally different wind he concluded there must be a whirlwind in the line, and, putting up a barrage of bad language, went to sleep.