And about those pacifists.  Just clap the whole lot in gaol.  That’s the best place for them.  I won’t object in the least, even though I am the apostle of freedom.

Then there are lots and lots of other things you might do.  You might deliver a reasoned manifesto to the Russian people and buck them up a bit.  That won’t do anybody any harm, and it’ll be getting on with the War, my little Welshman.

Well, there are a few points for you to go on with.  You’ve got the brains to think of more, otherwise I wouldn’t have helped to put you where you are to-day.  But remember that if you don’t do these things Demos is waiting round the corner for you.

Demos is a good dog—­a patient animal.  But there’s an end even to his patience.  Growl, Demos, and show you’re not afraid of Welshmen!

("Grrr——!” Good dog!  Good dog!)

Now then, old boy, I’ve shown you the way. It’s up to you!

* * * * *

    Another powerful article on these lines will appear next week.

[But not in Punch.-ED.]

* * * * *

[Illustration:  Caller at the office of the Inventions Board. “’DURING WAR PREPARE FOR PEACE’—­THAT MUST BE OUR MOTTO!  AND MY SPECIAL PATENT SHELL-CASE IS THE VERY THING.  A SHELL-CASE TO-DAY——­AND A BLANC-MANGE MOULD TO-MORROW.”]

* * * * *

THE ONLY OTHER TOPIC.

“I shot a marrow into the—­I mean I cut a marrow two feet seven inches long yesterday,” said the man in the corner seat.

“What did it weigh?” we asked anxiously.  After two months of them potatoes had somewhat palled.  We were growing rather tired of marrows, but we waited eagerly for his answer,

“Twenty-six pounds nine and three-quarter ounces.”

Disappointment again.  Our hopes were dashed to the ground.  Some obscure individual, according to the local press, had produced from his humble cottage garden a marrow weighing thirty-four pounds, and the thing rankled.

“Mine was a scraggy specimen, more like an Indian club than a marrow.”

“Crossed in love, perhaps,” said Dalton.

“What your marrow wanted was nourishment,” said the Authority.  “A piece of worsted round its neck, with one end dipped in a jar of water.”

“Excuse me,” said Jones, “the very latest is to insert a tube in the stalk, and the flavour is greatly improved if you add a little sugar to the water.  Almost like a melon.”

“Do you take a card out for each marrow, or one for each plant?” asked Dalton.

The quiet man opposite put his paper down.  He was a new-comer in the district.  We liked him, although he had no sense of humour and did not appreciate Dalton’s jokes.  He appeared to be interested only in the startling and the odd.

“That reminds me,” he said, “of a most extraordinary experience I had a few days ago.  Of course you all know Enderby?”