es,
and retired to a corner in the bar parlour feeling at peace with the
world--barring of course the German Empire and their allied forces.
Everything, in fact, made for peace and goodwill between us; yet,
because I had spoken with some levity about our incomplete spy system,
McNab's wrath had come down on my head like the proverbial "hundred of
bricks."

"It seems strange," I had remarked to him, "that the Huns can always
forestall our most carefully-prepared plans through their almost perfect
spy system. Our fellows must be dead stupid at the game. Why aren't
these German vipers ever nabbed?"

"Dead stupid!" McNab had exclaimed, after gazing at me for a minute in
dazed stupefaction at my unspeakable temerity in challenging the
proficiency of the British Army. "Get under your Blanco pot!"

Now, when McNab used this picturesque term to me I knew that there was a
storm brewing. He only used the expression when he wished to be
particularly "cutting," and I received his reproof with, I hope, a
correct realisation of my own insignificance.

The old world had rolled along for another twenty minutes ere McNab
shifted his legs, cleared his throat, and interfered with what was left
in his tankard.

"I wonder," he said musingly to himself, "if these poor yobs over here
will ever know the true 'istory of this bloomin' war?" Then back came a
smile to his face and he shook his head, indicating, perhaps, that he
had answered the question to his complete satisfaction. The joyousness
at the thought of some of those unrecorded slices of military history
caused my friend to drop again into a contemplative mood, and he
started humming a little tune under his breath:

Hello! Hello! who's your lady friend?
Who's the little girlie by your side?
I've seen you with a girl or two,
Oh, oh, oh, I AM surprised at you!
Hello! Hello! what's your little game?
Don't you think it's time your ways to mend?
That's not the gal I saw you with at Brighton,
Oh, oh, oh, who's your lady friend?

"If it is not a rude question," I ventured, after another few moments,
"did you ever see the capture of a German spy over in France, Mr.
McNab?"

"Who are you getting at ... trying to pull my leg?" he demanded, with
increased suspicion.

"Come, come," I laughed, "let us agree to differ about our--er--inferior
spy system."

"Superior," he insisted.

I surrendered before the gleam of his eye. Fool that I had been, ever