she excelled herself."--_Local Paper._

We understand that the Gasworkers' Union has remonstrated with the
orator on his excessive output.

* * * * *

THE SNIPER.

Brackley is a good fellow, but I loathe him.

How would you like it if you were tied to work and every now and then a
man came up to you in your club and said, "Old man, do come away with
me to the Pyrenees and shoot jummel," or "Can't you spare a month, old
fellow, to come stalking ibex in Montenegro with me?" or "Look here,
you're just the chap I want to run over to Alaska with me for a pot at
the grizzlies"?

Just a fortnight ago Brackley came and told me of a delightful rough
shooting he had rented in an obscure corner of Ireland. According to
him it was a congested snipe area. You could not see the pools for
wild-duck. The honking of wild-geese kept one awake at night. The
drawback to the estate was that you were always tripping over hares.

"You won't be safe there," I said to Brackley.

"I'm safe anywhere," said Brackley. "Work it on system. In Arabia send
the mullah a bottle of brandy. On the Continent stand the local mayor a
bottle of wine. In Ireland ask the priest up to drink whiskey with you
in the evening. So long as the authorities have their thirst relieved
there's never trouble. Now just come for a fortnight. There'll be crowds
of snipe. I'm told there are woodcock too."

I was adamant.

"Well," sighed Brackley, "I'll send you a card to say how I get on."

When his postcard arrived it ran:--

"To-day-- "_Ballinagrub._

Ten brace snipe. Four landrail.
One brace partridge. Three wild-duck.
Nine hares. One woodcock.

"What ho!"

Isn't that an aggravating card to get when you are deep in the most
elusive and trying chase of all--the money hunt?

I wrote Brackley a scornful postcard:--

"Go on with your baleful schemes. Wallow in slaughter. Roll in blood.
Devastate the district. As an honest hard-working Englishman I regard
you with utter contempt."

Three days later Brackley slapped me on the back in our club.

"What are you doing here?" I said. "Don't tell me the snipe have gone on
strike."

"All your fault," he grumbled. "About half-an-hour after I got your
infernal postcard six outsize Republican soldiers called on me and gave
me just ten minutes to get a car and drive to the station. I told them
what a silly fo