Having donned a warm dressing-gown, I was conducted to the Board Room, where I found a dozen of our greatest Specialists assembled.  The President shook hands and greeted me effusively.  Then I passed in turn from one Doctor to another, each making, with the utmost delicacy and consideration, a thorough examination of that part of my anatomy on which he was an acknowledged expert.

When this was over I was invited to retire to the dressing-room and resume my garments while the Board held a protracted consultation on my case.  On returning to the Board Room I was provided with a seat, and the President addressed me.

“Well, Mr. Smith, we can find nothing constitutionally wrong with you.  But tell me, have you ever had any serious illness?”

I shook my head.  I had always been abnormally healthy.

“Think carefully,” he urged.  “We don’t want to pass you as fit if we can help it.”

He seemed so anxious that I felt ashamed to disappoint him.

“Well,” I replied, “the only thing I can call to mind is that, according to my mother, I had a severe teething rash when I was ten months old.”

As I uttered these words the faces of all became suddenly grave.

“That is quite enough, Mr. Smith,” said the President.  “You are given total exemption.  You should never have been brought here at all, but I am sure you will realise that in times of national emergency mistakes of this nature are bound to occur.  If you will apply to the Cashier on your way out he will give you a draft for twenty pounds, to reimburse you in some small way for the loss of your valuable time.  Good-bye!”

He held out his hand, but before I could grasp it a mist again enveloped me, from which I emerged upon the dreadful facts of life.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  Employer. “WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?”

Old Operative. “’AVING ME ’AIR CUT.”

Employer. “WHAT, IN MY TIME?”

Old Operative. “WELL, IT GREW IN YOUR TIME.”]

* * * * *

SONGS OF FOOD PRODUCTION

VI.

BALLAD OF THE POTATO.

  Above three hundred years ago
    To Britain’s shores there came
  An immigrant of lineage low—­
    Sol Tuberose his name.

  He settled down in mean estate,
    Despised on every side,
  Until at last he waxed great,
    Grew rich and multiplied.

  Now none so popular as he;
    To every house he goes,
  At every table he must be—­
    The great Sol Tuberose!

  In time of war he proves his worth
    He helps us everywhere;
  There’s nothing on (or in) this earth
    That can with him compare.

  Not the great LLOYD could save the land
    Except for mighty Sol;
  For he is Bread’s twin-brother—­and
    He gives us Alcohol;