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feel just a little hurt that the Police have not prohibited our village bonfire. Why shouldn't Zeppelins come to Little Pilswick? Why should an arrogant metropolis monopolise everything? Still we hid our mortification and the Guy Committee met as usual in the saloon bar of the "Bull."

In the first instance Prodgers moved that the celebration be dropped, and that all material already collected be given to the Belgian refugees. It was pointed out to him that a gift of two empty tar-barrels and half-a-dozen furze bushes, though meant in all kindness, might prove embarrassing to any relief committee. Besides, we are happy in the entertainment of two Belgian families, and the feeling was that the sight of an uncultured fire would cheer them. So Prodgers was temporarily crushed. Then came the all-important question of the guy.

Mr. Flodden, the landlord, began the discussion. "Last year we'd, but we can't have no politics now, though he's—well, I wish I could tell him what he is. Year before we'd the Squire for stopping up that footpath, but he's in the Yeomanry now, so he's barred."

"The !" cried Jenkins. "Have him with mailed fists holding up a torn scrap of paper."

"No, the ," suggested Webb. "Every-one would know him if we put a silver spoon in each hand and hung a silver coffee-pot round his neck."

"," proposed Cobb.

"Had him twelve year or more ago," said the landlord. "'s off."

A fierce controversy now ensued between partisans of the and the. Prodgers argued ably that it was much worse to destroy a cathedral than to steal plate; whilst Unwin, the jobbing builder, declared that the damaging of a cathedral gave work to a very deserving class of men, and said he would very much rather see the parish church-tower knocked down than the Vicar's spoons stolen. At last feeling ran so high it was decided to put the matter to the vote. Five voted for the light-headed, five for his light-fingered heir. All eyes turned on the landlord to see which way his casting vote would go.

"Friends all," said Mr. Flodden, "we've kep' ourselves respectable in this village. Even our guys have been respectable, though, mind you, that —well, if it wasn't war-time, I'd say he come precious near the line. Now what's the good of us letting ourselves down to burn these 'Uns ? What about old ? I grant you he wanted to blow up the 'Ouses of Parliament; but, if there was licensing bills in those days, I don't blame him. I say stick to old and be respectable."

It was carried unanimously.

Somewhere in his rush from theatre to theatre of the war a message will reach the. The hatred of a world may flatter him, but the cold, chilling contempt of Little Pilswick will pierce to his very heart.





a son, William. But there are compensations; he is at school.

It was at the crisis of parting at the station that it seemed to me necessary to give William a word of parental advice. I hate seeing small boys at such moments stuffing themselves in refreshment-rooms.

"William," I said, "life is not all cricket and football."

"No, father" replied William, looking hard at the refreshment-room, "there's golf."

"That, William, is scarcely a game. I should describe it in my own case as an exercise taken under medical advice, to obtain relief from business strain."

"Father," burst out William, "there's Cheffins minor in the refreshment-room."

"William," I proceeded, "at the end of each term I receive an unsatisfactory report about you from your house-master. It is only then that I know you have wasted three months of golden time." ("Golden time" was a happy inspiration.)

"Old Starks is a rotter," said William briefly.

"Now I put you on your honour, William, to send me a truthful report of your progress at the half-term. Then if you are not doing well I can write and ask that you should have special attention. On your honour, mind."

"Yes, father. Shall we go across to the refreshment-room now?"

"Ah, yes, certainly," I said, noticing a signal drop. "Oh, no; here's your train coming in."

Then having done my duty I forgot all about the promised report. It arrived unexpectedly this morning. He had framed it precisely on the model of his house-master's reports:—

Position in Form. First.

Progress. Very marked; decidedly more attentive and industrious.

Latin. A distinct improvement in versification. Translates easily and intelligently.

Greek. Displays remarkable promise.

("Of course it won't be much use to him in my leather business," I said to my wife; "still it shows grit.")

Mathematics. Again marked progress is to be recorded.

Conduct. Courteous, orderly, obedient. A good influence in the house.

General Remarks. Will achieve a high position in the school, but must take care that too close absorption in study does not interfere with his athletic development.

"Most gratifying," I said to my wife. "I just put the boy on his honour. I don't believe in lecturing boys. Ah, what's this at the bottom?"

I read with horror the foot-note, "Per Wireless from Berlin."

I am a parent, so I instructed my wife to write a letter saying how much I was pained by William's frivolity. I am a patriot, so, without her knowledge, I slipped a postal order for ten shillings into the envelope.

 We hear there is no truth in the report that Mr. intends renaming his successful farce (now moved to the New Theatre) "When Nights Were Dark."