hink of a method for obtaining it, as his
vigilance was deadly. However a bright thought struck me, and I
assiduously saved up my rum ration for a month. Then one bitter cold
night I tossed over the accumulation in a bottle wrapped up in an old
sock. Presently there resounded in the still air a pleasant bubbling
sound indicative of liquid being poured out of a glass receptacle, then
a deep sigh, followed by a profound silence. Inch by inch I crawled over
our barricade and slowly wormed my way along the ditch. At last I
reached the Turkish barricade and cautiously slid my hand over the top
until my fingers encountered Ibrahim's toque. Then I gave a gentle tug.
Horror! he had the flap down under his chin. Unmanned for a moment I
recovered, and I slowly slid my fingers down his hirsute neck and with a
gentle titillation slid the flap clear. Ibrahim merely stirred in his
sleep and resumed his slumbers. Triumphantly hugging the trophy to my
bosom I crawled back to our barricade.

The saddest part of the tale is yet to come. I had promised to procure
you a trophy unstained by association with human slaughter, but when the
day dawned there lay poor Ibrahim stiff and stark behind his barricade,
killed by a cold in his head.

* * * * *

[Illustration: PANTOMIME ANNOUNCEMENTS.]

* * * * *

"Message Boy Wanted for Butchery."

_Brechin Advertiser._

A lot of people are after that boy.

* * * * *

"Taxi driver who laid down Fare at Royal Hotel at 2.45 p.m. on
Christmas Day, would oblige by returning Gent's Umbrella to
Hotel."

_Aberdeen Journal._

We gather that it had been a wet morning.

* * * * *

[Illustration: _Cyril_ (_eating his bread-and-jam--with not too much
jam_). "This is prepostrous--this war economy."]

* * * * *

HUNTIN' WEATHER.

There's a dog-fox down in Lannigan's spinney
(And Lannigan's wife has hens to mourn);
The hunters stamp in their stalls an' whinny,
Soft with leisure an' fat with corn.

The colts are pasturin', bold an' lusty,
Sleek they are with their coats aglow,
Ripe to break, but the bits grow rusty
And the saddles sit in a dusty row.

Old O'Dwyer was here a-Monday
With a few grey gran'fathers out for a field
(Like the ghostly hunt of a dead an'-done day),