ps the Editor of _Punch_ is less fastidious.

* * * * *

FOR OUR SAILORS.

The current week is "Navy Week," and Mr. Punch begs to urge his kind
friends to take their part in the great organised effort to raise a
large sum for the benefit of our sailors and their families--R.N.,
R.N.R., R.N.V.R., trawlers and mine-sweepers. The nation owes them
all a debt that can never be paid. The fund is to be administered on
the lines of King Edward's Hospital Fund. An All-American matinee
will be given in this good cause at the Victoria Palace on Thursday,
July 26th, and _Trelawny of the Wells_ (with Miss IRENE VANBRUGH) at
the New Theatre on Friday. Gifts for the fund may be addressed to
Commodore Sir RICHARD WILLIAMS-BULKELEY, Bt., at the offices of "Navy
Week," 5, Green Street, Leicester Square, W.C. 2.

* * * * *

[Illustration: THE SCRAPPER SCRAPPED.]

* * * * *

[Illustration: _Sergeant_ (_to cadet_). "SIT BACK, SIR! SIT BACK!
THINK WOT A BLINKIN' FOOL YOU'D LOOK IF 'IS 'EAD WAS TO COME ORF!"]

* * * * *

THE WATCH DOGS.

LXIII.

My dear Charles,--I never meant to give myself away; I meant to go
on talking about the old War till the end, just as if I was taking a
leading part in it, so that you should have still believed I was doing
the bull-dog business with the best of them. But no, let me be honest
and tell you that I have practically ceased to be a dog. The only
painful connection I can boast of recently with the War is that,
having cause to travel from place to place in this country, I was
unhappy enough to strike six meatless days in succession, which gave
me to think that even embusquing in France has its drawbacks. On
the seventh day I was accused, by good people who know not Thomas,
of being (1) a Russian, (2) an American, (3) a Belgian, and (4) an
Irishman, which made me feel that these gaudy colours I have burst
into are not so famous as I supposed; and on the eighth day I find
myself insulted in twenty-seven places by an angry mosquito, whom in
the small hours of the morning I had occasion to rap over the knuckles
and turn out of my billet. And I've got a nasty cold, and nobody loves
me or cleans my buttons, and if I want to go anywhere there are no
more motor cars and they make me pay a penny for the tram, and my wife
doesn't think I'm a hero any longer, and little James is bein