But in the Gulf of Lyons a breeze sprang up.  It was quite a gentle breeze at first, and Reginald found it rather stimulating.  Towards evening, however, it freshened, and the ship began to stagger.  Reginald became conscious of those disquieting symptoms common to landsmen in such case.  Fearful for his reputation he crept below to suffer in solitude.

By midnight it was blowing a gale, and Reginald had lost interest in life.  He was thinking mournfully of the vanity of all human desires when a message was brought from the captain.  They were about to perish.  Would his Excellency the Commander come up to the bridge and save them, please?

It was a painful predicament, and Reginald was justly horrified.  Could he venture out and display the weakness of the British Navy in the face of a crew of unwashed Greek matelots?  On the other hand, could he skulk in his cabin and allow the Master to doubt his courage and resource?  He rose and lurched unsteadily on deck.

The Captain was distinctly excited.  Destruction was imminent.  He had appealed to the Saints without avail.  Would the British Commander come to their assistance?  What did his Excellency think of it?

Reginald thought it was perfectly horrible.  He had never thought such a ghastly scene possible.  The ship appeared on the point of turning turtle and he was soaked to the skin already.  Then, realizing that he could not remain on the bridge another minute without internal disaster, he made a supreme effort.

“My dear skipper,” he howled at the top of his voice, “you surely don’t call this a storm?  The merest breeze, I assure you.  I really can’t be disturbed for such a trifle.  If it begins to blow at all during the night let me know and I’ll come up and take the matter in hand;” and without waiting for a reply he scrambled down from the bridge and made a dash for the seclusion of the state-room.

Next morning they were rolling in the swell off Marseilles, with the prestige of the British Navy, if possible, higher than ever.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  POLICE CONSTABLE (DEMOBILISED OFFICER) MEETS AN OLD FRIEND FROM FRANCE.]

* * * * *

    “The Lord Mayor of Dublin has placed a room in the City Hall at the
    disposal of the Labour party for the reception of reputations.”—­Irish
    Paper.

A kindly thought.  Reputations are so easily lost in Ireland.

* * * * *

JAZZERWOCKY.

(With apologies to LEWIS CARROLL.)

  ’Twas grillig, and the Jazzlewags
    Did glomp and scrimble o’er the board;
  All gladsome were their dazzlerags,
      And the loud Nigs uproared.

  “Beware the Tickle Trot, my son,
    The feet that twink, the hands that clug;
  Beware the Shimmy Shake and shun
      The thrustful Bunny Hug.”