“Why stop at a hundred?” I murmured, recovering myself with an effort.

But I could not escape Kathleen’s eye.

“I hope you feel small,” it said.

I did.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  The Colonel. “ANYONE MAY MISS THE TIDE OR GET STUCK UPON A MUD-BANK; BUT TO LOSE THE MATCHES AND FORGET THE WHISKY IS TO PROVE YOURSELF UNWORTHY OF THE NAME OF ’YACHTSMAN’!”]

* * * * *

RHYMES OF THE UNDERGROUND.

I.

I never heard of Ruislip, I never saw its name,
Till Underground advertisements had brought it into fame;
I’ve never been to Ruislip, I never yet have heard
The true pronunciation of so singular a word.

I’d like to go to Ruislip; I’d like to feast my eyes
On “scenes of sylvan beauty” that the posters advertise;
But, though I long to view the spot, while I am in the dark
About its name I dare not face the booking-office clerk.

Suppose I ventured “Riz-lip” and in answer to his “Eh?”
Stammered “Ruse-lip, Rise-lip, Rees-lip,” just imagine how he’d say,
“Well, where do you want to book to?” and the voices from behind,
“Must we wait until this gentleman has ascertained his mind?”

II.

The trains that stop at Down Street—­(Sing willow-waly-O!)—­
They run through Hyde Park Corner as fast as they can go;
And trains at Hyde Park Corner that stop—­(Oh dearie me!)—­
Contrariwise at Down Street are “non-stop” as can be.

There’s a man at Down Street Station—­he came there years ago
To get to Hyde Park Corner—­(Sing willow-waly-O!)—­
And, as the trains go past him, ’tis pitiful to see
Him beat his breast and murmur, “Oh dearie, dearie me!”

* * * * *

    ’"The Rev. R.S. ——­ has accepted the post of librarian of Pussy House,
    Oxford.”—­Local Paper.

And will soon get to work on the catalogue.

* * * * *

    “WANTED—­a middle-aged Witty Indian to read Bengali religious books and
    capable of telling witty and fairy tales from 12 to 3 p.m.”—­Indian
    Paper.

This might suit Mr. GANDHI.  If not witty, he is very good at fairy-tales.

* * * * *

VADE MECUMS.

I have invented a new sort of patience.  It is called Vade Mecums.  The rules are quite simple and all the plant you need for it is a “Vade Mecum” traveller’s handbook and a complete ignorance of all languages but your own.  Get one of these fascinating little classics, a passport and a single to Boulogne, and you can begin at once.

The game consists in firing off (in the local lingo) every single phrase that occurs in the book.  The only other rule in the game is that the occasion for making each remark must be reasonably apposite.  You need not keep to the order in the book and no points are awarded for pronunciation, provided that the party addressed shows by word or deed that he (or she) has understood you.  By way of illustration I will give some account of my first experiments in this enthralling pastime.