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[Illustration:  Sentry. ’"OO GOES THERE?”

Jock. “TWA SCOTCHES, AN’ AWFU’ UNDER PROOF.”]

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    “HOTEL. ——­ Sitting Waiter required, good experience.”—­Bournemouth
    Daily Echo.

The inclusion of the functions of a waiter among “sedentary occupations” explains a good deal.

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[Illustration:  Ex-Proprietor of a Cokernut Stall (who has just had his helmet shot off).  “WHAT’LL YE ’AVE, FRITZ—­NUTS OR A SEEGAR?”]

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FROM LORD DEVONPORT’S LETTER-BAG.

I.—­From Professor Tripewell.

MY LORD,—­You will, no doubt, forgive me for drawing your attention to the fact that the rationing system, to which you have lent the credit of your name, will bring us to the end of our food supplies in something considerably less than a month from now.  I am far from wishing to be an alarmist, but it is as well that we should face the facts, especially when they are supported by statistics so irrefutable as those which I am willing to produce to you at any moment on receiving your request to do so.

Fortunately it is not yet too late to apply a simple and adequate remedy to this condition of affairs.  All you have to do is to issue and enforce an Order in the following terms:—­

(1) Every occasion on which food, no matter how small the amount, is eaten shall count as a meal.

(2) Not more than two meals shall be eaten by any person, of whatever size, age or sex, in a day of twenty-four hours.

(3) No meal shall last more than ten minutes.

(4) The mastication of every mouthful shall last not less than thirty seconds.

(5) A mouthful for the purpose of this Order shall not consist of more food than can be conveyed to the mouth in an ordinary teaspoon.

I venture to think that this order, if issued at once and drastically applied, will meet every difficulty, and that we shall hear no more of a shortage.

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II.—­From Joshua Stodmarsh.

DEAR OLD SPORT,—­It won’t do—­really it won’t.  I’ve been doing my best to give your plan of food rations a fair run, and every week I’ve found myself on the wrong side of the fence.  I have never considered myself a large or reckless eater, though I own to having had a liking for a good breakfast (fish, kidneys and eggs, with muffin or buttered toast and marmalade) as a start for the day.  Then came luncheon—­steak or chop or Irish stew, with a roly-poly pudding to follow, and a top-up of bread-and-butter and cheese.  Tea, of course, at five o’clock, with more buttered toast, and then home to a good solid dinner of soup, fish and entree and joint and some sort of sweet.  This just left room for an occasional supper—­say three times a week.  It doesn’t sound out of the way, now does it?  And you must remember that I’m not one of your thin, dwarfish, anaemic blokes that you could feed out of a packet of bird-seed.  No, I stand six foot, and I don’t weigh an ounce under seventeen stone.  Dear old boy, you can’t have the heart to ask me to do it.