“But here, I say, what about my pay?”

“Ah!” said they unhelpfully....

And that, my dear Charles, is why, if you keep your eye on the journals of (say) the Summer of 1925, you will read in the Stop-press Column an urgent telegram from the W.O.:  “On April 1st, 1920, the following relinquishes his appointment

(Remaining, however,
    Yours always), HENRY.”

* * * * *

    ANOTHER IMPENDING APOLOGY.

    “MOTHERS’ UNION.—­ ...  A helpful discussion followed on ’How
    to Deal with Unworthy Members.’  There were about 50
    present.”—­Parish Magazine.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  Old Lady.  “WILL YOU PLEASE PUT ME DOWN AT THE SAME PLACE AS YOU DID LAST FRIDAY WEEK?”]

* * * * *

THE PRACTICE OF THE CREWS.

(Ballad after C.S.C.)

  The reporter aired his aquatic lore
    (Popply water in Corney Reach,)
  A thing he had yearly essayed before;
    And a rowing jargon obscured his speech.

  The coach he coached with a megaphone
    (Crabtree, Craven and Chiswick Eyot)
  Till the crew were prone to emit a groan,
    And the Cox said nothing but “Bow, you’re late.”

  The Stroke he quickened to thirty-four
    (In the first half-minute struck seventeen)
  Some clocks returned it a trifle more,
    Which wasn’t so good as it might have been.

  The towpath critic he shook his head
    (Thornycroft’s, where they began to row): 
  “Hung over the stretcher” was what he said,
    And “missed the beginning,” and “hands too slow.”

  The towpath critic, whoe’er he be
    (A tug and some barges blocked the way),
  For thirty odd years, it seems to me,
    Has never found anything else to say.

  The towpath critic’s remarks are trite
    (Off Ayling’s Yard in a stiffish breeze),
  Yet I study religiously morn and night
    Whole columns consisting of words like these.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  MANNERS AND MODES.

THE COMPANY-PROMOTER’S PROBLEM—­HOW TO UTILISE THE BOOM IN SPRING.]

* * * * *

THE GENIUS OF MR. BRADSHAW.

(By our Literary Expert.)

No one will be surprised to hear that the Christian name of Mr. BRADSHAW was George.  Indeed, it is difficult to think what other name a man of his calibre could have had.  But many people will be surprised to hear that Mr. BRADSHAW is no longer alive.  Whatever one thinks of his work one is inclined to think of him as a living personality, working laboriously at some terminus—­probably at the Charing Cross Hotel.  But it is not so.  He died, in fact, in 1853.  His first book—­or rather the first edition of his book[1] was published