always sure he didn't
mean to do it. As for military law, I am shaky on the fines for
drunkenness, and I don't feel at all sure whether death at dawn or two
extra fatigues is the maximum punishment for having one string of the
hold-all longer than the other when on active service.

When I kicked the bell-push towards the end of last guest-night the
Adjutant said he should mark me down for the job of Physical Training
Officer; but I hope he was only joking. I am not built for the work.
My frame is puny and my countenance irresolute. I hate bending and
stretching my arms; they creak and frighten me. I never could squat on
my heels like a thingummy.

I might, if allowed, make a hit as Messing Officer. With the aid of
my Cookery Course notes I can differentiate between no fewer than
thirty-four different types of rissole. Unfortunately we already have
a Messing Officer of deadly efficiency. He can classify dripping by
instinct. He can memorise at sight all the revolting contents of a
swill-tub. My rissole lore is a poor asset in comparison.

No, James, I think I have it. One day you will read that our Armies
of Occupation consist of so many hundred thousands of all ranks,
including, perhaps, 35,001 officers. That is why they retain me.
I shall be the "1" at the end of the thousands. It is your humble
servant's function to keep the Armies of Occupation up to strength.

Are we to be robbed of the fruits of victory? The reply is in the
negative. Therefore, when next June comes along and you yearn for
the early filberts, do not be fretty. Remember that I am gathering
in fruits of another and a nobler kind. Yours ever,

WILLIAM.

* * * * *

[Illustration: "SORRY, MUM, BUT I'M AFRAID YOU'LL 'AVE TER STAY
UPSTAIRS 'COS THE AFFILIATED SOCIETY OF PIANNER-SHIFTERS 'AS CALLED A
GENERAL STRIKE THIS MINNIT."]

* * * * *

NEW BREAD FOR OLD.

["New Bread Again"--"Loaves of Any Shape."--_Headlines from a
Daily Paper_.]

As I walked forth in Baker Street
As sober as a Quaker,
Whom did I have the luck to meet?
I met a jolly Baker.
His voice was gay, his eye was bright,
His step was light and airy,
His face and arms were powdered white--
I think he was a fairy;
He danced beneath the April moon,
And as he danced he trolled
Wild snatches of an ancient rune,
Yet all the burden of his tune
Was "New--Bread--for Old!"