ained
surprise Coleopteron was not to be found. All over that palm he
searched in vain and on the floor; then suddenly he emitted a gurgling
sound and I saw that he was in the grip of deep emotion. There was a
look on his face I had never seen before, and I anxiously asked him
what had happened. For some time he could not speak, but stood gazing
vacantly into space. At last, with parched lips, he spoke.

"Look in the milk-jug!" he said, and sank into his chair.

For a moment I thought that Frederick had been poisoned, and then I
realised the truth, for there in the hot milk floated the corpse of
Coleopteron.

"Why did he do it?" pleaded Frederick with a break in his voice.

"Because," I replied, "you hadn't the sense to realise that he was
staking his all on catching that boat, and, instead of helping him,
you brought him back to where he started from."

* * * * *

Early the next morning, at Frederick's desire, we left Buda-Pesth _en
route_ for the Swiss Frontier. It was impossible, if he was to retain
his reason, to stay longer in a city that had for him such tragic
associations.

* * * * *

[Illustration: THE PEACE QUEUE.

AUSTRIA _(to Germany)._ "GET A MOVE ON!"

BULGARIA. "IT'S NO GOOD HAGGLING; WE'VE ALL GOT TO HAVE IT."

TURKEY. "WELL, I'M LAST, AND I DON'T CARE HOW LONG ANYBODY TAKES."]

* * * * *

[Illustration: _Temporary Officer (in department which they have
forgotten to close down)._ "DASH IT! I DON'T SEE WHY WE SHOULDN'T GET
UNEMPLOYMENT PAY."]

* * * * *

A CAPITAL OUTLAY.

It was, in a sense, mutual. We had chickens; the chickens had us. On
the other hand, they had the best of the bargain. We kept them; and
they did not keep us.

My aunt insisted that we _must_ keep chickens, and you know my aunt.

Pardon! You don't know my aunt. She is an elderly maiden lady who
"keeps house" for me. She is eminently practical--theoretically
speaking.

She insisted. "With eggs at eightpence it's a sin and a shame not to
keep hens in war-time."

I urged that the food would cost a good many eightpences--in war-time.

Her reply was "Pshaw!" (She really does say "Pshaw"--and means it.)
"Pshaw! they will live on kitchen scraps."

We consulted Nibletts. He has a local reputation as a chicken expert,
mainly, I believe, because he's a butcher. He recommended a breed
called Wild