“Marvellous!  And a mother too, I suppose.”

“Yes,” I said, “but she doesn’t come into the story.  Rowell’s father had a passion, it appears, for riding, and one dreadful afternoon, when we were playing cricket, he rode into the cricket-field. He was wearing trousers, and his trousers had rucked up to his knees. It was a terrific sight, and, though we all pretended not to see and were very sorry for young Rowell, he felt the blow most keenly.  I hope my hat won’t be like Rowell’s father’s trousers.”

“It isn’t a bit like them yet,” said Francesca.

R.C.L.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  Officer.  “BUT SURELY, THOMPSON, IF THESE MUD-BILLETS ARE ALL ALIKE YOU OUGHT TO REMEMBER WHERE YOU PUT MY HORSE——­“]

[Illustration:  Batman.  “HERE HE IS, SIR.”]

* * * * *

“Fireman wanted; consuming under 50 tons; wages 30s.”

Under the present system of rationing, this demand for moderation does not seem excessive.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  Inspecting Officer.  “IT’S NO USE YOUR TELLING ME YOU HAVEN’T GOT ANY POTATOES ABOUT THE PLACE.  IF YOU HOLD THE END OF THIS TAPE I’LL VERY SOON TELL YOU HOW MANY YOU HAVE HERE.”

Farmer.  “YE’LL BE A MAIN CLEVER LITTLE FELLOW, THEN.  THEY WAS TURMUTS WHEN I PUT ’EM IN LAST BACK END.”]

* * * * *

=OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.=

(By Mr. Punch’s Staff of Learned Clerks.)

It is my deliberate verdict that Mr. E.F.  BENSON is (as my old nurse used to express it) “in league with Somebody he oughtn’t.”  I hope, however, that he will understand this for the extorted compliment that it is, and not magic me into something unpleasant, or (more probably) write another book to prove to my own dissatisfaction that I am everything I least wish to be.  That indeed is the gravamen of my charge:  the diabolic ingenuity with which he makes not so much our pleasant vices as our little almost-virtues into whips to scourge us with.  All this has been wrung from me by the perusal of Mr. Teddy (FISHER UNWIN).  Even now I can’t make up my mind whether I like it or not.  The first half, which might be called a satire on the folly of being forty and not realising it, depressed me profoundly.  I need not perhaps enlarge upon the reason.  Later, Mr. BENSON made a very clever return upon the theme; and, with a touch of real beauty, brought solace to poor Mr. Teddy and consolation to the middle-aged reader.  I need give you only a slight indication of the plot, which is simplicity itself.  Into the self-contained little community of a provincial society, where to have once been young is to retain a courtesy title to perpetual youth, there arrives suddenly the genuine article, a boy and girl still in the springtime of life, by contrast with whom the preserved immaturity