rotten old country.

I thought that, at any rate, I had provided one surprise for my readers. Then I turned to my psychological study, entitled "The Funk." There wasn't much story in this, but a good deal about a man's sensations when in danger. I could picture the horror of it from personal experience, for my rear rank man has nearly brained me a dozen times when the specials have bayonet drill (I also have nearly brained—but I am wandering from the subject). Well, the Funk at the critical moment ran away, but, being muddled by German gas clouds, ran straight into the German lines. He thought that people were trying to intercept his flight. In panic he cut them down. At the last moment he cut the Crown Prince's smile in twain. (In fiction, mark you, it is quite allowable to put the Crown Prince into the firing line). Then came glory, the D.C.M. and a portrait of some one else with the Funk's name attached in The Daily Snap. However, novelty was needed. I concluded by leaving the Funk hiding in a dug-out when the British charged and eating the regiment's last pot of strawberry jam.

I turned to another romance, entitled "Secret Service," and found to my joy that this needed very little alteration. The hero chanced to be in Germany at the outset of the war. He was imprisoned at Ruhleben, Potsdam, Dantzic, Frankfort and Wilhelmshaven. He escaped from these places by swimming the Rhine (thrice), the Danube, the Meuse, the Elbe, the Vistula, the Bug, the Volga, the Kiel Canal and Lake Geneva. He chloroformed, sandbagged, choked and gagged sentinels throughout the length and breadth of Germany. From under a railway carriage seat he overheard a conversation between Enver Bey and Bernhardi. Concealed beneath a pew at a Lutheran church he heard Count Zep. and von Tirp. exchanging deadly secrets. Finally he emerged from a grandfather's clock as the Kaiser was handing the Crown Prince some immensely important documents, snatched them, stole an aeroplane, bombed a Zeppelin or two on his homeward way, and landed exhausted at Lord Kitchener's feet. Here came the change. Instead of opening the parcel to discover the plans of the German staff, the War Secretary found in his hand this document:—

"Sausage Prices in Berlin: Pork Sausage, 3 marks 80 pf.; Horse Sausage, 3 marks 45 pf.; Dog Sausage, 2 marks 95 pf. Gott mit uns.—Wilhelm."

I sent the three romances to Clibbers and waited his reply with anxiety. It came promptly and as follows:—"Are you mad?—Clibbers."

Instantly I sent him the first versions of these magnificent fictions. He phoned me at once, "That's the kind of novelty I want. Send me some more."

You will see "Retrieved," "The Funk," and "Secret Service" in the magazines shortly. Don't trouble if the titles differ. After all, there are only three genuine War story plots.

More Stories of Old London.

(With acknowledgments to "The Evening News.")

Mr. George Washington Turpin, Islington, writes:—

"I wonder if Mr. G. R. Sims remembers a curious horsey character known as John Gilpin, who rode in state one day from his home in the City to the Bell at Edmonton. I shall never forget the crowd that assembled to see him pass through Islington. It's quite a while ago and my memory is not so clear as it might be, but being a bit of a road-hog he missed the Bell and went on to York or somewhere."

DUAL CONTROL.

"A KIND OF A GIDDY HARUMFRODITE—SOLDIER AN' SAILOR TOO."

Rudyard Kipling.

"Sir Percy Scott has not quite left the Admiralty and has not quite joined the War Office."—Mr. Ellis Griffith, in the House. Since this remark Lord Kitchener, has announced that the Admiral is to act as expert adviser to Field-Marshal Lord French, who is taking over the responsibility for home defence against aircraft.

THE SIMMERERS.

"I shall never shake it off," said Francesca. It was six o'clock and she had just come in from having tea with some friends.

"Shake what off?" I said.

"My Cimmerian gloom," she said. "Haven't you noticed it?"

"No," I said, "I can't say I have. Perhaps if you stood with your back to the light—yes, there's just a soupçon of it now, but nothing that I could honestly call Cimmerian."

"Of course you'd be sure to say that. I can never get you to believe in my headaches, and now you won't notice my Cimmerian gloom."

"Francesca," I said, "I do not like to hear you speak lightly of your headaches. To me they are sacred institutions, and I should never dare to tamper with them. Don't I always walk on tiptoe and speak in a whisper when you have a headache? You know I do, even when you don't happen to be in the room. If your gloom is the same sort of thing as your headache——"

"It's much worse."

"If it's only as bad I'm prepared to give it a most respectful welcome. But what is it all about?"

"It's about the War."

"God bless my soul, you don't say so. You're generally so cheerful about it and so hopeful about our winning. What has happened to give you the hump? We've blown up any amount of mines and occupied the craters, and we've driven down several German aeroplanes."

"Yes, I know," she said, "I admit all that; but I've just met Mrs. Rowley."

"And a very cheery little party she is, too."

"That," said Francesca, "is just it."

"What's just what?" I said.

"Don't be so flippant."

"And don't you be so cryptic. What's Mrs. Rowley's cheerfulness done to you?"

"I'll tell you how it happened," she said. "We met; 'twas at a tea, and first of all we talked about committees."

"Committees!" I said. "How glorious! Are there many?"

"Yes," she said. "There's the old Relief Committee, and the Belgian Committee, and the Soldiers' Comforts' Committee, and the Hospital Visitors' Committee, and the Children's Meals' Committee, and the Entertainments' Committee and the——"

"Enough," I said. "I will take the rest for granted. But isn't there a danger that with all these committees——?"

"I know," she said; "you're going to say something about overlapping."

"Your insight," I said, "is wonderful. How did you know?"

"I've noticed," she said, "that when men form committees they always declare that there sha'n't be any overlapping, and then, according to their own account, they get to work and all overlap like mad. Now we women don't worry about overlapping. Most of us don't know what it means—I don't myself—but we appoint presidents and treasurers and secretaries, and then we go ahead and do things. If we were only left to ourselves we should never call a meeting of any committee after we'd once started it. It's the men who insist on committees meeting."

"Yes, and on keeping them from breaking their rules."

"What's the use of having committees if you can't break their silly old rules?"

"Amiable anarchist," I said, "let us abandon committees and return to Mrs. Rowley."

"Well," she said, "we soon got on to the War."

"You might easily do that," I said. "The subject has its importance. What does Mrs. Rowley think of it?"

"Mrs. Rowley thinks it's