sole survivors of his dashing but sanguinary
counter-attack, the king and two pawns, have assumed the bored and callous
air of a remnant that has fought too long and is called upon to fight
again. The Colonel has just unceremoniously pushed his sovereign to the
rear with a flick of his nervous irritated little finger. His opponent can
obviously bring him to his knees in two moves. Instead of which the
Adjutant brazenly commences with massed bands and colours flying to execute
a masterly tactical advance with the whole of his command--cavalry,
infantry, church and tanks, in order to achieve the destruction of the two
bantam bodyguards.

This is not playing the game, and the Colonel fumes inwardly and frets
outwardly. In the intervals of pressing down the unlit tobacco in his pipe
with an oscillating thumb, he alternately pokes his king out of the corner
and pulls it back again; while his transparent impulse is to scrap the
board, wreck the ante-room and run amok. The Adjutant continues his
innocent amusement until at last the pleasure wanes. The two heroic pawns
are carried decently off, and he apologetically whispers his suspicions of
a checkmate to his commanding officer.

The Colonel brushes aside the Mess President's tinder-lighter, shatters the
mute triumph of the serried black ranks of the hostile forces with one
superb elevation of the eyebrows, smashes three matches in quick
succession, and proves that all the time his mind has been preoccupied with
weightier matters by saying after the manner of all true War Lords, "Umph."

* * * * *

[Illustration: _Tube Conductor_. "PASS FURTHER DOWN THE CAR, PLEASE! PASS
FURTHER DOWN THE CAR, PLEASE!! (_In desperation_) ANY LADY OR GENTLEMAN
PRESENT KNOW THE GERMAN FOR 'PASS FURTHER DOWN THE CAR'?"]

* * * * *

Sweetness and Light.

O MATTHEW ARNOLD! you were right:
We need more Sweetness and more Light;
For till we break the brutal foe
Our sugar's short, our lights are low.

* * * * *

A LUCID EXPLANATION.

It was my task to collect from their relatives particulars as to the
whereabouts of the wounded of our neighbourhood, for the purposes of our
local report. It wanted five minutes to twelve, the sacred dinner-hour of
the British artisan, and one name remained upon my list, against which was
a pencilled note, "Reported returning home." Did that mean that he w