killed by kindness, this news frankly shocks us, and we are sorry that it should have been passed by the Censor.
⁂
Mr. Rudyard Kipling entered his fiftieth year last week. He did it quietly, without an ode from the Poet Laureate.
⁂
The Vorwärls reports that there is a shortage of braces among the German soldiers at the Front. Ostend, evidently, is not "so bracing" after all.
⁂
The Sultan of Turkey has issued a rescript announcing that the Sultan of Egypt will be tried by a court-martial of the 4th Army Corps, which is now operating against Egypt. They were wrong who alleged that the Turks are wanting in humour.
⁂
The French Government has prohibited the exportation of butter. Curiously enough the day after the prohibition our provision merchant informed us that he was quite unable to supply us with our "real Devonshire butter" as usual.
⁂
The latest recruiting poster at Hastings runs:—
"FALL IN! SOUTHDOWNS."
But this does not necessarily mean cheaper mutton.
⁂
"Reuter's New York correspondont wires that Mr. Eugene Zimmerman, whose death was announced the other day, was the railway magnate, and not the noted caricaturist popularly known as 'Zim'." This news, when conveyed to the latter, was very well received.
⁂
"NEW YEAR'S HONOURS.
P.C. FOR LABOUR LEADER."
At first we hoped that the police had come for Keir Hardie.
"CAPTURING THE ENEMY'S TRADE.
From Craven House, Northumberland street, W.C., there has been issued a pamphlet entitled 'British Trade with Russia,' compiled fro mconsular reports, by Mr. Malcolm Burr, M.A. D.Sc., etc., the object of the work, which is published at sixpence, being to indicate the colossal potentialities of the Russian market, and to supply some data to the British merchant or manufacturer who contemplates entering it."—Kentish Mercury.
We have no fault to find with the above, except that it is placed under the general heading "Literature and Art," being actually neither.
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"Porter, Porter! Stop the train! I've left my wool in it!"
PAYING GUESTS.
I came across Crawshaw in the road unexpectedly. I would rather meet a rate-collector than Crawshaw. He is the most dangerous beggar in England. He could induce a blind crossing-sweeper to guarantee half-a-crown a week to a Belgian Relief Fund. If only he were Chancellor of the Exchequer people would almost like paying income-tax.
"Good morning, old man," I said, trying to dash past him.
"Just the man I was looking for," said Crawshaw. "I want you."
"My dear fellow," I began, "I can't possibly afford———"
"I don't want your money," interrupted Crawshaw.
"Well, you've got all my spare blankets, underclothing and old novels."
"I want you to come to a little dinner I'm giving on Monday. Just a bachelor festival."
I looked at him suspeciously. "You intend to entice me into your house and produce a subscription list."
"My dear fellow, I'll do nothing of the sort. It's just that I want a few of my friends to have a good time. Look in around 7.30. You'll come? That's good."
I found a genial company assembled when I arrived.
"Now we're all here," said Crawshaw. "Come in to dinner, you men."
Two or three guests confided in me on the way that Crawshaw owed us a good dinner after all he had got out of us. We seated ourselves at the table, and then I noticed an empty bowl in the middle. It bore this inscription, "Any one desiring to make a remark about the War will drop a shilling in for the Soldiers' Comforts Fund."
"My idea," said our smiling host. "We want a nice convivial dinner with an evening off from The Subject. We shall return to it to-morrow with fresh intelligence and enthusiasm after a brief relaxation."
I turned to my neighbour, Spoor, and carefully selecting a safe topic began on the weather. "Bit windy, isn't it, to-night?"
"Good anti-Zeppelin weather, I call it," said the incautious Spoor.
"A shilling, please, Spoor," remarked Crawshaw.
Rogers was across the table. I could see him fiddling with knives and salt-cellars. All at once he broke out: "In our platoon to-day there was a man missing, and in consequence a blank file. Now in such a case———"
"You pay a shilling," interposed Crawshaw.
For a moment an awful silence prevailed. I could think of nothing except the War. All at once Williams threw a five-shilling piece into the bowl.
"I met an officer on leave from the Front to-day," he began, "and he was telling me just what Joffre is up to."
Now Chapman is nothing if not a strategist. He listened with impatience to the exposition of Joffre's idea, and then, hurling half-a-sovereign into the bowl, proved conclusively that Williams' informant was absolutely in the wrong.
It was at this point that I remembered an intersting fact I had just heard about Italy's mobilisation. I could not keep it back. "Crawshaw," I appealed, "will you compromise? A sovereign each for the dinner?"
"Done," said Crawshaw.
"Good. I always mistrusted you. I came without a penny. Lend me a sovereign."
"I'm not in this compromise," crief Chapman. "I've said all I've got to say. You'll run me in for nothing more."
It was at the end of the meal that Crawshaw rose. "Thanks awfully, you fellows. There's twelve pounds twelve in the bowl. Eleven of us have given
