suspect he 'put it to his lips when so dispoged,'
and that, in this instance also, he mistook my nod for silent but
emphatic encouragement.

"Now," I say to the Amiable Amanuensis and Adaptable Author, "you
read your stuff aloud with emphasis and discretion, and I'll chuck in
the ornamental part. Excuse me, that's _my_ drink," I say, with an
emphasis on the possessive pronoun, for the Soldierly Scribe, in a
moment of absorption, was about to apply that process to my liquor. He
apologises handsomely, and commences his recital. In the absence of a
gong,--one ought never to travel without a gong,--I whack the tea-tray
with a paper-knife. "All in to begin!"

"_The mail train_," &c., &c. I make my notes, and remark that MURRAY
and BRADSHAW lost a great chance in not having long ago secured the
services of the Corresponding Captain. "_The railroad passes through
mountain scenery of exceptional_," &c., &c. BRADSHAW and MURRAY, not
to mention BAEDEKER and BLACK, absolutely not in it with the Wandering
Warrior. "_About thirty miles from Cape Town_"--

A SIMPLE SUGGESTION.

I stop him at this point. "Couldn't we have a song here?"

"Why?" asks the Simple Soldier, glaring at me, and pulling his
moustache.

"Just to lighten it up a bit," I explain. "You see 'About thirty
miles' and so forth, suggests the old song of _Within a Mile of
Edinboro' Town_."

"Don't see it," says the Virtuous Veteran, stolidly.

"Well, I'll make a note of it," and I add pleasantly, as is my way,
"if it's a song, I'll make _several notes_ of it."

"Um!" growls the Severe Soldier, and once again I defeat him in an
attempt at surprising my outpost, i.e., my tumbler of cool drink. He
apologises gruffly but politely, and then continues his reading.

ON WE GOES AGAIN.

He continues to read about "_distances," "so many feet above
sea-levels," "engineering skill_," &c., &c., which I observe to him
will all make capital padding for a guide-book, when I am suddenly
struck by the sound of the word I had just used, _viz._, 'padding.'

PADDINGTON.

"By Jove!" I exclaim.

"What is it?" asks the Confused Captain, looking up from his MS.

"'Padding,'" I reply--"Only add a 'ton' to it, and that will give it
just the weight I require. Don't you see?" I ask him, impetuously.
But he merely shakes his head, and lugs at his moustache. I explain
the idea, as if it were a charade. I say, "The whole notion is
'padding--ton.' See?"

The Ruminating Reader thin