n some other
way than through the ordinary channels of the post, telephone and
telegraph. Each member of this army of artists, litterateurs and
tacticians possesses a hip pocket, fully loaded, two pairs of puttees,
a compass and a wrist watch.

Every day scores of women and children are leaving the Isle of Wight
for the mainland. Gunboats and cruisers are passing and repassing
before its shores, by order of the Admiralty; strong, silent men are
doggedly pursuing the business they have in hand. In the very heart
of the island some of the flower of the youth of our country is
being trained in the art of naval warfare, while the thunders of
gun-practice are heard every hour around the coast. Yet, search where
you will in the Ginger-beer Press during the last few weeks, you will
find practically no reference to these things.

We implore our readers, on the highest patriotic grounds, to inform
the few remaining adherents of the Ginger-beer Press that if they
desire the Truth it can be found only in our pages.

We have the pleasure of printing below the first of the astonishing
articles which have been sent already from our Expeditionary Staff:--

THE PRELIMINARY CALM.

_By Blinton X. Krapt._

The streets of Cowes are bathed in sunlight. Smart yachtsmen,
accompanied by daintily dressed ladies, walk hither and thither. The
shopkeepers chat pleasantly. The burly policeman drowsily pursues
his way. Children shout happily. Surely here is peace, says the
unsuspecting visitor.

A brown-faced man with a light beard and a heavy tread approached
us. "It is all right," said my companion to him; "this gentleman is
a friend." Then, lowering his voice, he added: "_He came over last
night._" "Beautiful place, Cowes, isn't it?" said the bronzed man. I
noticed that his hip pocket bulged. Yet none would have suspected that
his conversation was not of a perfectly ordinary character.

Entering the most sumptuous hotel in Cowes we had lunch. There was
nothing sinister about the place except that the waiters were German.
But I noted signs of understanding between them and my friend. "I have
been here before," he explained, with a quick glance about him.

So life goes on from day to day. We are waiting, waiting. The little
boot-maker in his shop is waiting. The tailor is waiting. The hotel
staffs are waiting. The passengers on the railway platforms are
waiting. On the surface life is gay and free from care; but what I may
have to tell