would ever have thought of warming them), the intimation that the bath (also of the right temperature) was ready—how should I be thus looked after without Lidbetter?

And then the careful stropping of my razors. Without Lidbetter how could I get that done for me?

Without him I am sure I should never change my neck-tie till it was worn out, or get new shirts until mustard and cress had begun to sprout on the cuffs of the old ones, or have a crease down my trousers like Mr. Gerald Du Maurier, or go out with anything but a dusty overcoat and dustier hat.

But with Lidbetter...!

How do people get on without Lidbetters? I wondered. I suppose there are men who do not keep men and yet exist—men who can't say, "My man"? An odd experience.

I wondered how old he was by now—Lidbetter. Difficult to tell the age of that type, so discreet and equable. He might be anything from thirty to fifty.

And what was his other name? Curious how I had never ascertained that. I must ask him, or, better still, get him to witness something and sign his full name. My will, say.

Talking of wills, perhaps I ought to leave Lidbetter something after such faithful service.

Good old Lidbetter!

Thus musing I walked home.

The next morning I went to the shop and asked for the parcel.

"You surely won't carry it yourself?" the shopkeeper said. "I would have sent it only I understood that your man would call."

"I haven't got a man," I said. "I've never had one."

"Pardon," he replied, and gave me the parcel.

COMMERCIAL CANDOUR AT THE SALES.

"I assure you, Madam, these kitchen knives represent the greatest value ever offered at the price."

"They certainly look nice and seem very cheap. The only question is—will they cut?"

"Ah, Madam, if you ask me that, I'm bound to say they will not; but that is their one fault."

"Two quite unique golf performances have been made on the Lutterworth course. The Rev. W. C. Stocks and Mr. F. Marriott were playing a round of eighteen holes last Friday, and at the third hole, which is an iron shot (145 yards), Mr. Marriott surprised himself and amazed his opponent by holing out with an iron. Then when they came to the eighth hole, which is 188 yards distance, the rev. gentleman went one better. Taking his brassey, he had the delightful experience of seeing his ball roll into the hole. Both shots were magnificently directed."

Market Harborough Advertiser.

We guessed at once that they must have been fairly straight.

THE YELLOW FURZE.

(A Tragedy in One Act, which may be played by the Abbey Theatre players without fee.)

Scene I.

[The kitchen in the M'Ganns' house. Mrs. M'Gann, Sheila M'Gann, Molly M'Gann, Aloysius Murphy, and Jeremiah Dunphy sit round the fire, top left centre. The door is top right centre. On the left side is a window. Four large grandfather clocks are standing here and there round the room. In front of the fire is seated a little wee bit of a pigeen. The Stranger is seated by the window, apart from the rest. As the curtain rises one of the clocks strikes two, another strikes eleven, while the others remain silent. It is thus impossible to tell what time it is. The Stranger gazes out of the window. No one speaks. The curtain falls.

Scene II.

[Much the same, except that the window is now on the right side. The women are engaged in peeling potatoes. The Stranger is obviously much embarrassed at the sudden change in the position of the window.

Jeremiah. 'Tis a terrible night—a terrible wet night.

Molly. Sure an' it's yourself that has no call to say the same, Jerry Dunphy, an' you saying a minute since that ye were as dry as ye could be!

[The rest break into a roar of laughter, with the exception of the Stranger and the pig.

Aloysius (slapping his knee). A good wan, that! It's yourself is the smart girl, Molly!

[The door is suddenly flung open with great violence and young Michael enters. He is carrying a number of hurls.

Jeremiah. Power to ye, Michael avick! And did ye win to-day?

Michael. Is it win? And will ye tell me why wouldn't we win?

[Sheila is about to speak, but checks herself as a thin piping voice is heard chanting outside.

The Voice.

[The voice ends on a high note, which quavers away into silence.

Sheila. The blessed Saints preserve us! What was that?

Mrs. M'Gann. Musha, don't be frightened, child! Sure, it's only poor ould Blithero[1] Pat. (She goes to the door and opens it.) Come in, Pat, and have a bite an' a sup to warm ye this terrible night.

[The old man enters. He comes slowly over to the hearth, tapping with his stick, and seats himself in front of the fire. He seems to stare at the glowing turf. At last he speaks.

Blithero Pat. Comin' over the bog I met Black Finnegan. He had a powerful drop o' the drink on him.

Molly. The Saints preserve us from that man!

Blithero Pat (continuing in a dull monotone). And Shaun M'Gann was with him.

[Mrs. M'Gann sits back with a look of horror on her face.

Aloysius. Shaun does be a terrible man when he's on the drink.

[The pig rises and goes out by the door, which has been left open.

Sheila. The crathur! 'Tis himself can't bear to hear his master miscalled.

Blithero Pat (still continuing in the same tone). Shaun told me to tell ye, Mrs. M'Gann, that he was coming home the way he'd kill ye entirely.

Jeremiah (starting up quickly, as the others recoil in horror). We must stop him. He's coming by the bog, ye said, Pat?

Blithero Pat. Ay! Be the bog it is.

Aloysius. Come on, all of ye!

[Exeunt hastily all but Blithero Pat and the Stranger.

[Blithero Pat chuckles softly. He then addresses the Stranger in a hoarse whisper.

Blithero Pat. Divil the bit he's comin' be the bog. He's comin' be the cross-roads.

[The Stranger makes no reply. Blithero Pat laughs hideously and goes out.