d into the manager's private room.

"About this War Loan," I began. "I understand that you advance money at
five per cent. to make the purchase."

"Yes, that is so," said the manager, beaming.

I leapt for joy. I had thought that there must be a catch somewhere.

"Put me down for a hundred thousand," I said.

The manager nearly fell out of his swing-chair. "My dear Sir," he gasped,
"have you any prospect of being able to save a hundred thousand during the
next year or so?"

"Am I a milk-dealer or a munition-worker?" I replied. "I should be both
surprised and gratified if I saved that sum in a year. Still I might do it,
you know. I should have to give up tobacco, of course. Or suppose relations
hitherto unknown to me died and left me handsome legacies. You are always
seeing these things in the papers. 'Baker Inherits Half-Million From Lost
Australian Uncle.'"

"A hundred," amended the manager. "Shall we say a hundred? You need not pay
a deposit. I'll give you a form."

"Where's your patriotism?" I demanded. "A hundred, you say? Well, I decline
your overdraft. Keep your ill-gotten much-grudged gain. I'll pay cash."

I left the bank sadly. I had thought of intimating to the blonde, brown and
auburn beauties that I had just put a hundred thousand in War Loan. I had
imagined their eyes gleaming at the spectacle of one-tenth of a
millionaire.

And now I can't go to the bank again. At least not till I have worked up my
balance a little above its present total, namely L2 _1s. 9d._

* * * * *

[Illustration: _Instructor_ (_to very nervous lady, who, with a view to
war-work, is inquiring about tuition_). "OF COURSE YOU WOULD BEGIN ON A
LOW-POWERED CAR, AND THEN WE SHOULD TAKE YOU IN A 40--50, AND FINISH YOU
OFF IN TRAFFIC."]

* * * * *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

(_By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks_.)

_If Wishes were Horses_ (HURST AND BLACKETT) is one of the most engaging
novels that I have met for some time. The matter of it, perhaps, is nothing
very new: a story of expanding fortunes and contracting sympathies. But the
writer, Countess BARCYNSKA, has, before all else, the inestimable gift of
making you believe in her people. All the characters are vigorously alive.
The result is that one follows with quite unusual interest the chequered
career of her central figure, _Martin Leffley_, from his introduction as a
frankly unpleasant youth, very red ab