rty he supports fosters such methods and
manners."

"Is that all?"

"No. And that is just where I shall differ from everybody else. I shall go
on where they have stopped. Having made one individual ridiculous, I shall
broaden the basis of operation. With consummate skill I shall gradually
draw the public officials down into the arena."

"Don't forget the gas-man; he was very rude last month."

"Not that kind," I explained. "Cabinet Ministers, Secretaries of State, the
whole machinery of government shall writhe under the barbed shafts of my
mockery. Ridicule is the power of the age. Ridicule in my hands shall be as
bayonets to NAPOLEON, as poison to a BORGIA." I gasped.

"Help!" said Enid, taking up _The Daily Most_. "Here's the very
thing," she went on. "Somebody called 'A. Lethos'----"

"Pah! A pseudonym."

"Well, anyhow, he says that all political writers are worthless sycophants.
You might begin on that."

"I will," I cried. "But craven anonymity is not my part. My name shall
stand forth boldly. Fate's linger points the way. How do you spell
'sycophant'? The type has gone a bit dizzy over it."

And I plunged into the fray.

"Sir," I began; and there followed 2,000 words of closely-woven argument,
down to "I remain, Sir, your obedient Servant."

I read it through carefully, looked up "sycophant" in the dictionary, and
wrote it all out again.

Then I showed it to Enid.

"Why have you spelt 'sycophant' like that?" she asked.

"I----"

"No, 'y.'"

"It _is_ a 'y.'"

"Oh!" (Pause.) "What about the offer? Mr. Lethos says that ninetenths of
what is written nowadays is only worth the ink and paper."

"The offer," I reminded her, "will come later."

"Oh! I just thought---- You might get rid of those articles on 'Happiness
in the Home' at cost price. They're running up to quite a lot in stamps."

I posted the letter to the Editor.

Next morning I seized the paper nervously. There was my name at the end of
a column and a half. I had begun.

I sat down to wait for the next step. It came with the mid-day post in a
letter from Saxby, who is--or was--my friend.

"Good old Tibbles," it ran; "I knew some juggins would rise, whatever I
wrote. But fancy landing you!--Yours ever, BEEFERS."

Now how _can_ a man save his country on a thing like that?

* * * * *

SMILES AND LAUGHTER.

On days of gloom and sadness,
When nothing brings relief,
When men are moved to ma