SAYS BLOKER. "BREEDING SHOWS ITSELF IN THE EAR, AND NOWHERE ELSE!"

MORE MESSAGES FROM THE MAHATMA.

1. I AM KOOT HOOMIBOOG. There are more things in my philosophy than were ever dreamed of in heaven or earth. You are POONSH. You are a Thrupni but you are not a Mahatma. Be a Mahatma, and save your postage expenses. But you must be discreet; and you must be exceeding vague. A Mahatma is nothing if he is not vague. You must also be elusive. Can you elude? It is no light matter to prove one's spiritual capacity by materialising a cigarette inside a grand piano.

2. Your reply to my letter is soulless and sceptical. How can you ask me, O POONSH, what I am trying to get at? I ask nothing from you. It would be to your advantage rather than mine if you printed my poem on the Re-incarnation of Ginan Bittas, entitled The Soul's Gooseberry Bush. And if you will only be a Mahatma, or a disciple, I will gladly let you have the serial rights in that great work. What do you mean by saying you do not want to find cigarettes in your neighbour's piano? Think it over again, and you will see the beauty of it. You are a Thrupni, but surely you have some spiritual needs.

3. You say that you do not want my poem, and you ask me if I have no further attractions to offer. I am KOOT HOOMIBOOG, and I have kept the greatest attraction for the last. If you will only join us, you may find a few newspapers who will discuss you. You may see the question whether you are a fool or a knave debated in the correspondence columns. Think of the glory of it!

4. What? you won't? Well; I am surprised!

THE (EUROPEAN) WORLD AND ITS WIFE.—Europe—says an oracle—is "Wedded to Peace." Possibly. And Europe, doubtless, does not exactly desire a divorce. But Europe has to pay pretty heavily—in armies and fleets, &c.—for Peace's "maintenance."

THE TRAVELLING COMPANIONS.

No. VI.

SCENE—Garden of the Hotel Victoria at Bingen, commanding a view of the Rhine and the vine-terraced hills, which are bathed in warm afternoon sunlight. Under the mopheaded acacias, CULCHARD and PODBURY are sitting smoking. At a little distance from them, are a Young Married Couple, whose honeymoon is apparently in its last quarter.

The Bridegroom (lazily, to Bride, as she draws another chair towards her for a foot-rest). How many more chairs do you want?

Bride (without looking at him). I should think you could spare me one—you can hardly sit on three at once!

[After this interchange of amenities, they consider themselves absolved from any further conversational efforts.

Podb. (to CULCH., resuming a discussion). I know as well as you do that we are booked for Nuremberg; but what I say is—that's no earthly reason why we should go there!

Culch. No reason why you should go, unless you wish it, certainly. I intend to go.

Podb. Well, it's beastly selfish, that's all! I know why you're so keen about it, too. Because the TROTTERS are going.

Culch. (colouring). That's an entire mistake on your part. Miss TROTTER has nothing to do with it. I don't even know whether she's going or not—for certain.

Podb. No, but you've a pretty good idea that she is, though. And I know how it will be. You'll be going about with her all the time, and I shall be shunted on to the old man! I don't see it, you know! (CULCH. remains silent. A pause. PODBURY suddenly begins to search his pockets.) I say—here's a pretty fix! Look here, old fellow, doosid annoying thing, but I can't find my purse—must have lost it somewhere!

Culch. (stoically). I can't say I'm surprised to hear it. It's awkward, certainly. I suppose I shall have to lend you enough to go home with—it's all I can do; but I'll do that with—er—pleasure.

Podb. (staring). Go home? Why, I can wire to the governor for more, easily enough. We shall have to stay here till it comes, that's all.

Culch. And give up Nuremberg? Thank you!

Podb. I rather like this place, you know—sort of rest. And we could always nip over to Ems, or Homburg, if it got too slow, eh?

"Good Heavens, It—It's gone!"

Culch. If I nip over anywhere, I shall nip to Nuremberg. We may just as well understand one another, PODBURY. If I'm to provide money for both of us, it's only reasonable that you should be content to go where I choose. I cannot, and will not, stand these perpetual interferences with our original plan; it's sheer restlessness. Come with me to Nuremberg, and I shall be very happy to be your banker. Otherwise, you must stay here alone.

[He compresses his lips and crosses his legs.

Podb. Oh, that's it, is it? But look here, why not tit up whether we go on or stay?

Culch. Why should I "tit up," as you call it, when I've already made up my mind to go. When I once decide on anything, it's final.

The Bride (to Bridegroom, without enthusiasm). Would you like me to roll you a cigarette?

Bridegroom (with the frankness of an open nature). Not if I know it. I can do it better myself.

Bride (coldly). I see.

[Another silence, at the end of which she rises and walks slowly away, pausing at the gate to see whether he intends to follow. As he does not appear to have remarked her absence, she walks on.

Podbury (to Culch., in an undertone). I say, those two don't seem to hit it off exactly, eh? Seem sorry they came! You'll be glad to hear, old fellow, that we needn't separate after all. Just found my purse in my trouser-pocket!

Culch. Better luck than you deserve. Didn't I tell you you should have a special pocket for your money and coupons? Like this—see. (He opens, his coat.) With a buttoned flap, it stands to reason they must be safe!

Podb. So long as you keep it buttoned, old chap,—which you don't seem to do!

Culch. (annoyed). Pshaw! The button is a trifle too—(feels pocket, and turns pale). Good Heavens, it—it's gone!

Podb. The button?

Culch. (patting himself all over with shaking hands). Everything!—money, coupons, circular notes! They—they must have fallen out going up that infernal Niederwald. (Angrily.) You would insist on going!

Podb. Phew! The whole bag of tricks gone! You're lucky if you get them again. Any number of tramps and beggars all the way up. Shouldn't have taken off your coat—very careless of you! (He grins.)

Culch. It was so hot. I must go and inform the Police here—I may recover it yet. Anyway, we—we must push on to Nuremberg, and I'll telegraph home for money to be sent there. You can let me have enough to get on with?

Podb. With all the pleasure in life, dear boy—on your own conditions, you know. I mean, if I pay the piper, I call the tune. Now, I don't cotton to Nuremberg somehow; I'd rather go straight on to Constance; we could get some rowing