He capered whooping home to his villa, told Mrs. Freddy to pack her toothbrush and come along, and the mail bore them hence.  Next day the weather broke, the sky turned upside down and emptied itself upon us, the parade ground squelched if you trod on it, the gutters failed to cope with the rush of business, and the roads ran in spate.

The post-orderly, splashing back to barracks, reported the disappearance of Oswald and Co.

We determined that they must have been washed out to sea and pictured them astride the wigwam in a beam-roll off Kinsale, keeping a watchful eye for U-boats.

We had seven days of unrelieved downpour.  On the morning of the eighth, Freddy and wife returned from leave, and, opening the front door of the villa—­which they discovered they had forgotten to lock in the delirium of their departure—­stepped within.  At the same moment, Oswald, the hairy dog and the woolly donkey heard the call of the great spaces, and, opening the back door of the villa, stepped without and departed for haunts unknown.

Freddy in a high state of excitement came over to the Mess and told us all about it.

He himself had been all for slaying Oswald on the spot, he said, but Mrs. Freddy wouldn’t hear of it.

“She says he hasn’t stolen anything,” Freddy explained.  “She says he was only staying with us, in a manner of speaking, and was quite right to take his poor old dog and donkey under cover during that rotten weather, she says—­so that’s the end of it.”

But it wasn’t the end of it; Freddy had reckoned without his other O.C.  Here was a heaven-sent opportunity of training the men under practically Active Service conditions, scouring the country after real game—­Ho! toot the clarion, belt the drum!  Boot and saddle!  Hark away!

So now we are out scouring the country for Oswald and Co., one hundred men and horses, caparisoned like Christmas-trees, soaked to the skin, fed to the teeth.  And Oswald and Co.—­where are they?  We cannot guess, and we are very very tired of practically Active Service conditions.

Oyez, Oyez, Oyez!  Anyone finding three children of the Open answering to the description of our friends the enemy, and returning them, dead or alive, to our little fortress, will he handsomely and gratefully rewarded.

PATLANDER.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  Earnest Lady.  “OF COURSE I UNDERSTAND MEN MUST DRINK WHILE DOING SUCH HOT AND HEAVY WORK.  BUT MUST IT BE BEER?  CAN’T THEY DRINK WATER?”

Mechanic.  “YES, LADY, THEY CAN DRINK WATER, BUT (confidentially) IT MAKES ’EM SO GIDDY.”]

* * * * *

    “Boy, to heat at hearth and to strike occasionally.”—­Sheffield
    Daily Telegraph.

A case for the N.S.P.C.C.

* * * * *

Appended to a quotation from The Globe on German intrigues with the Vatican:—­