t. A stove-pipe belching smoke and savoury fumes
protruded itself through the pavement on my right. Through the chinks
in the gaping slabs there came the ruddy flicker that bespoke a "home
from home" beneath my feet; and then, still listening for signs of
Dustbin, I heard--

"Didn't I tell you, Erb, to stop up that extra ventilation 'ole with
somethin'?--and now look wot's blown in. 'Ere, steady on, ole man;
that's got to last four men for three days."

"Well, I'm ----," chimed in another voice, "if the bloomin' tin ain't
empty. Why, I only just opened it--that's a 'ole Maconochie 'e's got
inside 'im, not countin' wot you've just.... Poor little beggar must
be starvin'. You're welcome to stop and share our grub, young feller,
but I've got to go on p'rade wiv that--that's a belt, that is...."

I turned towards the dimly lighted road that led to ---- [Censored].
Dustbin had found a home.

* * * * *

[Illustration: A FATEFUL SESSION.

SITTING HEN. "GO AWAY! DON'T HURRY ME!"]

* * * * *

[Illustration: _Inquiring Lady_ (_ninety-ninth question_). "AND WHAT
ARE YOU IN THE NAVY, MAY I ASK?"

_Tar_. "I'M A FLAG-WAGGER, MARM--YES."

_Inquiring Lady_. "OH, REALLY! AND WHAT DO YOU WAG FLAGS FOR?"

_Tar_ (_in a ring-off voice_). "MAKIN' READY FOR THE PEACE
CELEBRATIONS."]

* * * * *

THE MUDLARKS.

The scene is a School of Instruction at the back of the Western Front
set in a valley of green meadows bordered by files of plumy poplars
and threaded through by a silver ribbon of water.

On the lazy afternoon breeze come the concerted yells of a bayonet
class, practising frightfulness further down the valley; also the
staccato chatter of Lewis guns punching holes in the near hill-side.

In the centre of one meadow is a turf _manege_. In the centre of the
_manege_ stands the villain of the piece, the Riding-Master.

He wears a crown on his sleeve, tight breeches, jack-boots, vicious
spurs and sable moustachios. His right hand toys with a long, long
whip, his left with his sable moustachios. He looks like DIAVOLO, the
lion-tamer, about to put his man-eating chums through hoops of fire.

His victims, a dozen Infantry officers, circle slowly round the
_manege_. They are mounted on disillusioned cavalry horses who came
out with WELLINGTON and know a thing or two. Now and again they wink
at the Riding-Master and he winks back a