"A number of motor-cars, including one belonging to Mr. Lloyd George, are blocked in the Snowdon district, and the sheep farmers are much perturbed."—Morning Post.

However, they can sleep soundly in their beds now, for he is back in London again.

THE SLIT TROUSER.

(Whose arrival in England is reported in the photographic press.)

TACT.

Mr. Anchor always wears a moustache for the soup course whenever his uncle, the general (from whom he has expectations), dines with him.

"DASH."

"There's no book like it," said A. "Get it at once."

"You must read Dash," said B.

"If you take my advice," said C., "and you know I'm not easily pleased by modern fiction, you'll get Dash and simply peg away till you've finished it. It's marvellous."

"I suppose you've read Darnock's Dash?" said D. "It's by far his best thing."

At dinner my partner on each side gurglingly wished to know how I liked Dash, taking it for granted that I knew it more or less by heart.

So having read some of Darnock's earlier work and thought it good, I acquired a copy of Dash and settled down to it.

I had not read more than two pages when it occurred to me that I ought to know what the other books in the library parcel were; so I went to look at them. One was a series of episodes in the career of a wonderful blind policeman who, in spite of his infirmity, performed prodigies of tact on point duty, and by the time I had finished glancing through this it was bed-time. I put Dash under my arm, for I always read for half-an-hour or so in bed. How it happened I cannot imagine, but when I picked up the book and began to read I found, much to my surprise, that it was the other library novel.

"Have you begun Dash yet?" B. asked me at lunch.

"Oh, yes, rather," I said.

"I envy you," he replied. "How far have you got?"

"Not very far yet," I said.

"It's fine, isn't it?" he remarked.

"Fine."

The next evening I had just taken up Dash again when I remembered that that other novel must be finished if it was to be changed on the morrow, so I turned dutifully to that instead. It was a capital story about a criminal who murdered people in an absolutely undetectable way by lending them a poisoned pencil which would not mark until the point was moistened. I enjoyed it thoroughly.

The next evening I was