to confer with the War Office.

An old lady with a million wrinkles approached me and seemed desirous of
entering into conversation. We are strictly forbidden to talk with
civilians unless first accosted. After that it is a matter for
individual discretion.

I therefore left it to her to make the first advance. She began: "'Ave
you got to sit there the 'ole of the afternoon, dearie?"

I confirmed that apprehension.

"Well, I do call it a shame; and you looking so blue with the cold."

With that I was in cordial agreement.

"Are they going to bring you tea, dearie, at 'arf-time?"

Alas, no. Under sergeant's sanction we might be permitted to buy a
pork-pie from opposite, but this must be taken as unofficial and in
confidence.

"What are you waiting for?" she asked.

"Zeppelins, Madam," I replied.

"Zeppelins--what would they be?"

She nodded a vigorous understanding of my explanation.

"And when they drop their nasty bombs, what will you do then, dearie?"

Our orders were to draw our truncheons, arrest them and convey them to
the nearest police-station. I made this very clear.

"And what do you think they will do to them?"

I considered that they would get at least a month with hard labour, and
no option of a fine.

"I should think so! The brutes--trying to take away the poor man's food!
And as for that CROWN PRINCE, when you get 'im, just you 'it 'im right
over the 'ead with your truncheon!"

We are not allowed to hit over the head on ordinary occasions, but in
the case of the CROWN PRINCE attacking (and conceivably looting) our
sausage factory, no doubt the rule would be relaxed. I undertook to
follow her advice, and she left greatly relieved.

* * * * *

A CAPTURE.

Even without his khaki I should have known the wee lieutenant for an
infant in arms, and I began to hope, directly I had been detached by our
hostess to cover his left wing, that he was that happy warrior for whom
I was seeking. He saw me looking at the red ribbon which adorned the
left wing in question and which our gardener's wife told me the other
day was "a poor trumpery sort of thing if KITCHENER meant it as an
honour to them."

"I'm not a kicker," he assured me, and I let him talk inoculation
happily until we commenced to move forward in files.

"You live here, don't you?" he said as soon as Maria (not black) had
served us with soup, and when I assented his next remark made me
hopeful.

"An