[Illustration:  A MATTER OF “COURSE.”

Eminent German Specialist.  “VAT VATERS ’AVE YOU BEEN IN ZE ’ABIT OF TAKING?”

English Gouty Patient.  “WATER!  HAVEN’T TOUCHED A DROP, EXCEPT WITH MY TEA, FOR THE LAST THIRTY YEARS!”

[Upon which a mild course of Homburg, Kissengen, Marienbad, and Karlsbad is at once prescribed.]

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HOW INSULTAN’!

British Envoy, Timbuctoo, to Foreign Minister, London.

No end of a row!  Grand Vizier, Lord Chamberlain, Keeper of Privy Purse, and other high Officials, assembled outside my house, and smashed windows, aided by furious crowd.  Certain that Sultan is at bottom of it.  Mayn’t I say something vigorous to him?

Foreign Minister, London, to British Envoy, Timbuctoo.

Awkward, as General Election going on.  Temporise.  Appear not to notice stone-throwing.  Very difficult to get to Timbuctoo with British Force.  If hit with stones, try arnica.  Rather think Timbuctoo was discovered by an Irishman, and called after him, TIM BUCKTOO.  Eh?

British Envoy to Foreign Minister.

Please don’t jest; especially not in Irish.  Glad to say aspect of affairs completely changed.  Sultan frightened about the stone-throwing.  Beheaded Grand Vizier, and sent Lord Chamberlain, heavily ironed, to be imprisoned in cellar under my own apartment.  Gratifying.  Treaty on point of being signed.

Foreign Minister to British Envoy.

Your action quite approved of.  Get Treaty signed quick!  France, not unnaturally, seems rather galled.  See joke?  Play on word “Gaul.”

British Envoy to Foreign Minister.

Quite see joke.  Saw it years ago.  Please don’t send any more of ’em.  Treaty settled!  Gives absurdly generous bounty to all British subjects trading with Timbuctoo.  Abolishes all Tariffs.  Draft, with Sultan’s signature, returned to him to be properly copied out.  Mere formality.  Packing up, and off to Coast to-night.

Same to Same.

Arrived at coast.  Treaty in carpet-bag.  Regret to say, that on examining it, find that Sultan has slipped in the little word “not” in every clause.  Makes hash of whole thing.  What shall I do?

Foreign Minister, London, to British Envoy.

Do nothing!  Former Foreign Minister no longer in Office.  General Election has taken place.  Whole subject will be reconsidered, with quite new lights, before long.  Off for a holiday just now, and can’t attend to it.  You’ll hear from me again in about six months.  Meanwhile, your motto must be—­“Fez-tina lente!” Last joke.  Brilliant.  Just going to let it off at dinner-party.  P.S.—­Great success.

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