imes and Mail" of January 1st, 1925.)_

A significant case was heard yesterday in the courts, when William
Blogg, bricklayer's labourer, recovered twenty-five pounds damages
from James Buskin Carruthers, artist, for injury done to the
plaintiff's eight-cylinder car through defendant's culpable negligence
in allowing himself to be run over by it.

Plaintiff urged that he was a labouring-man, who worked eight hours a
day. The court was at once adjourned, while restoratives were applied
to the Bench.

On the resumption of the proceedings it was explained that since the
passing of the Two Hours Maximum Day Bill the supply of labour had
been inadequate to meet the demands made upon it, and plaintiff had
patriotically filled four posts, at the minimum rate of fifteen
shillings an hour. It was while he was hurrying from one sphere of
activity to another that the collision occurred, resulting in injury
to the plaintiff's mud-guard and loss of valuable time.

Defendant, who admitted negligence, pleaded poverty and threw himself
upon the mercy of the Court.

The Bench, in summing up, called the jury's attention to the fact that
defendant was not a labourer, but only a professional man; at the same
time he reminded them of the impartiality of British justice, which
did not admit that there was one law for the rich and another for
the poor. Even the wealthiest labouring-man must be protected in the
exercise of his inalienable right to work.

The accompanying photograph shows the plaintiff in the act of
assisting to build a wall.; He is a self-made man, having started
life as a solicitor and by sheer perseverance raised himself to the
lucrative and responsible' position of an unskilled bricklayer's
labourer.

* * * * *

TO M. GEORGES CLEMENCEAU.

Strong son of France, whose words were ever lit
By lightning flashes of ironic wit;
More fond of power than of pelf or place,
Eternal foeman of the mean and base,
And always ready in a righteous cause
To suffer odium and contemn applause--
Men call you still the "tiger," but the name
Has long outworn the faintest hint of blame,
Since in your country's direst hour of need
You have revealed your true heroic breed;
A tiger--yes, to enemies and Huns,
But trusted, idolised, by France's sons.
So when of late a traitor's felon blow
Was like to lay you, old and ailing, low,
And France was sorely stricken in her Chief,