made arrangements for home
manufacture to supplant the alien jemmy. No British burglar would need
to be equipped with anything but all-British implements, turned out in
British factories and giving employment to British workmen only. And now
what do we find? The market has gone to pot. Yes, Sir, to pot. And
that's the reward for our patriotic efforts!"

Opinions of other representative men in the criminological world have
reached us in response to telegrams (reply paid):--

Sir ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE: "Ruin stares me in the face."

Mr. GERALD DU MAURIER: "Have decided to suppress _Raffles_ for the
period of the War."

Mr. RAFFLES: "Have decided to suppress GERALD DU MAURIER for the period
of the war."

Mr. G. K. CHESTERTON: "Have always maintained that patriotism is the
curse of the criminal classes. Will contribute ten guineas to National
Fund for Indigent Burglars Whose Front Name Is Not William."

Crown Prince WILHELM: "Have nothing to give away to the Press."

Mr. GEORGE BERNARD SHAW: "My first telegram for three months. To be a
criminal needs brains. There are no English criminals."

* * * * *

Illustration: _Nurse._ "GOODNESS ME! WHAT 'AVE YOU BEEN DOING TO YOUR
DOLLS?"

_Joan._ "CHARLIE'S KILLED THEM! HE SAID THEY WERE MADE IN GERMANY, AND
HOW WERE WE TO KNOW THEY WEREN'T SPIES?"

* * * * *

WITH HIGH HEART.

The long line of red earth twisted away until it was lost in the fringe
of a small copse on the left and had dipped behind a hillock on the
right. Flat open country stretched ahead, grass lands and fields of
stubble, lifeless and deserted.

There was no enemy to be seen and not even a puff of smoke to suggest
his whereabouts. But the air was full of the booming of heavy guns and
the rising eerie shriek of the shrapnel.

Behind the line of red earth lay the British, each man with his rifle
cuddled lovingly to his shoulder, a useless weapon that yet conveyed a
sense of comfort. The shells were bursting with hideous accuracy--sharp
flashes of white light, a loud report and then a murderous rain of
shrapnel.

"Crikey!" said a little man in filthy rain-sodden khaki, as a handful of
earth rose up and hit him on the shoulder; "crikey! that was a narsty
shave for your uncle!"

The big man beside him grunted and shifted half an inch of dead
cigarette from one corner of his mouth to the other. "You can 'old my
'and," said he with a grin.