the space of two years and nine months. And now the absurd figure-of-eight nine-hole course, the third hole of which was also the seventh, and the first the ninth, had been complicated into a war kitchen-garden, and James, bored with ordinary difficulties and discomforts, had evolved the new golf.

"Come on," said he, burning with the zeal of a martyr-burner, "I'll show you the ground."

"Can't I see it by standing up in the hammock?" I protested.

We approached the dark demesne, which was now pretty decently clothed with potatoes, artichokes, rhubarb, raspberry-canes, marrows and even cucumber-frames. In the midst was a large open cask which filled itself by a pipe from a former six-inch water-hazard. Here James began to propound the mysteries.

"The game," he said, "is a mixture of the old golf, tiddleywinks, ludo and the race game."

"Not spillikins?" I protested. "A game I rather fancy myself at."

"For your information, please," continued James in his kindliest military manner, "I may remark that a mashie is the club mostly used—except when it is necessary to keep low between, say, two clumps of potatoes."

"So as not to rouse the wireworms," I nodded. "Yes—go on."

"The conditions of the game are governed by the necessity of paying due respect to the vegetable hazards. There is only one hole on the course."

"If you remember," I said, "I told you long ago that that was all there was room for, but you would persist in making it nine."

"The hole," said James, "is the water-butt. You have to get into that. By the way, your balls are floaters, I hope?"

"Only six of 'em," I said. "However, I dare say you won't mind if I grub up a few potatoes to carry on with afterwards. So we hole out in the water-butt? That's the tiddleywinks part of it, I suppose? Go on."

"There are various penalties," he explained. "If you get among the potatoes, you add ten to your strokes and start again at the tee. If you are bunkered in the raspberries, you lift out—"

"Step back three paces out of sight and pick one over your left shoulder?" I inquired hopefully. "I shall often find myself in the raspberry hazard."

"And if," concluded James sternly, "you are so clumsy as not to avoid the cucumber-frames—"

"Say no more," I begged. "I understand. I shall ask for the time-table, shake hands, thank you for a most delightful visit, and express my regrets that any little contretemps should have arisen to hasten my departure."

"—you add fifty to your strokes. Five for the marrows and the rhubarb—in each case returning to the tee."

"And the artichokes," I asked, surveying a thick forest of them guarding the right flank of the water-butt—"what is their market value?"

"No penalty," said James grimly, "except staying there till you get out."

"One last piece of information. What is bogey for this hole?"

"About two hundred, I think," said James; "but no doubt you'll lower it."

"I don't know," I replied. "That's about my usual at the old game." And therewith I made my tee, drove and went into the garden to cut a cabbage leaf.

After hoeing the vegetables with a mashie for a hot two hours, I fought my way out of the rhubarb on all fours, with a golf-ball between my teeth, and then strode doggedly back to the tee and drove into the virgin artichoke forest. While I toyed there with the sub-soil, the unwearied James went to earth among the marrows. Hastily I heeled my ball into the ground (to be retrieved by James months later and announced as a curious scientific result of growing artichokes on a golf course), uttered a cry of triumph, and strolled out into the open.

"A hundred and seventy-nine. My game, I think," I announced.

James extricated himself and walked with me to the butt.

"Hullo!" I said, "it's sunk. Thought it was a floater. It ought to be for a half-crown ball."

"You mustn't lose it," said James suspiciously. "Well let off the water and get it out."

"No, no," I protested. "It's not one that I really valued. Oh, very well," I added indifferently, feeling in my pocket for a non-floater.

James stooped to open the tap, and I popped the new ball in unobtrusively.

It floated. And the next instant James stood up and saw it.

After that of course there was nothing left to do but to ask for the time-table, shake hands, thank James for a most delightful visit, and express my regrets that any little contretemps....

W. B.

Major. "WHY HAVE YOU PUT THAT CLOTH OVER HIS HEAD?"

Private Mike O'Flanagan (harassed by restive horse). "SO AS HE WON'T KNOW HE'S BEING GROOMED, SORR."

"——'s new Pattern Books of

WALLPAPERS

will be sent on loan free of charge.

"N.B.— ——'s use adhesive paste, which has been expressly prepared to conform with the Food Controller's regulations."
Advt. in Evening Paper.

So it is no use waylaying the paper-hanger on the chance of getting a free meal.

ANSWER TO CORRESPONDENT.

"Anti-Reprisal."—If you are out walking, and enemy aeroplanes are dropping bombs on your side of the street, it is advisable to cross over to the other side. Never shake your umbrella at the enemy 'planes. A taxi-driver might think you were signalling to him.

Some of our street urchins are quite bucking up in their education. The other day a small boy called out to a Frenchman, "Pourquoi n'êtes-vous pas en bleu? Slackeur!"

"Unique Old-World Cottage (big), about 30 min. door to West End, yet rural seclusion; frequent express trains, last 12 p.m.; nothing like it so close town; suit antique lover."
Observer.

This should make a beautiful retreat for an elderly Lothario's declining years.

"The Basement Tea Room is near the Boot Dept., where Afternoon Teas at moderate prices are obtainable."—Advt. in Evening Paper.

Very à propos—des bottes.

Governess. "WELL, MOLLIE, WHAT ARE LITTLE GIRLS MADE OF?" Mollie. "SUGAR AND SPICE AND ALL THAT'S NICE." Governess. "AND WHAT ARE LITTLE BOYS MADE OF?" Mollie. "SNIPS AND SNAILS AND PUPPY DOGS' TAILS. I TOLD BOBBIE THAT YESTERDAY, AND HE COULD HARDLY BELIEVE IT."

THE BOMBER GIPSY.