the Olympic Games are ever
held in our neighbourhood the sprint and the hurdles will be simply at the
mercy of our local post-office. They take no credit for it. It is simply
practice, they say.

But, to return to the main subject, we have lost Timon. One month has
passed without his cheery presence at Bellevue. Reckless postmen have made
themselves free of the front garden and all colour has gone out of life.

We have done everything to win him back. We have inserted numerous
advertisements in the agony columns of the newspapers: "If this should
catch the eye of Timon," or "Come back, Timon. All will be forgiven;" but
apparently we have yet to find his favourite newspaper.

We began with the well-known canine papers, trusting vainly that he might
happen to glance through them some day when he was a bit bored or hadn't an
engagement. After that we went through _The Times_, _The Morning Post_
(he's strongly anti-Bolshevik), _The Daily News_ (his views on vivisection
are notorious) and other dailies, and then took to the weeklies.

We had strong hopes for a time that _The Meat Trade Review_ would find him.
Timon is fond of raw meat. But failure again resulted. We have now reached
_Syren and Shipping_ and _The Ironmongers' Gazette_ and--

* * * * *

I must stop here to inform you of the glad news. Elaine has just hurried in
to tell me that Timon has replied and will be back to-morrow.

How did we catch his eye? Well, of course we should have thought of it
before. It was _The Post Office Gazette_.

* * * * *

THE ROMANCE OF BOOKMAKING.

A VISIT TO MESSRS. PRYCE UNLTD.

(_With acknowledgments in the right quarter._)

A gigantic commissionaire flings wide the doors for us and, passing
reverently inside, we are confronted by the magnificent equestrian statue
of Mr. Bookham Pryce, the founder of the firm. This masterpiece of the
Post-Cubist School was originally entitled, "Niobe Weeping for her
Children," but the gifted artist, in recognition of Mr. Pryce's princely
offer of one thousand guineas for the group, waived his right to the title.

On the left we see the Foreign Department. Here we watch with rapt
attention the arrival of countless business telegrams from all parts of the
world. We choose one or two at random and see for ourselves the
ramifications of Pryce's far-flung booking service. This one from China:
"Puttee fifty taels Boko Lanchester