The pursuit of odd examples of the epistolary art being one of the principal occupations of my life, I secured a copy of the document, which in English runs thus:—­

    “To the ——­ Insurance Company, Shanghai.

“DEAR SIR,—­When I died of a disease that came on suddenly an intelligent doctor was at once asked for.  He forced some fluid into my mouth and made some injection on my body.  He thus succeeded in bringing me to life again.

    “The beneficiary came to your place yesterday.  What did she say? 
    Everything will be discussed after her return.

    “Kindly give me your valuable assistance and reply by post.

    “Yours faithfully, TSIN KOH.”

* * * * *

JOSHUA.

On July 1st, 1916, the regiment, in company with several other regiments and sundry pieces of ordnance, attacked the Hun in the neighbourhood of the river Somme.  A fortnight later the officers of B Company found themselves in a dug-out in a certain wood.  It is now time to introduce Joshua.

Joshua was at that time our junior subaltern, and we called him Joshua after Sir JOSHUA REYNOLDS, on account of his artistic attainments, though portraits by the hand of our Joshua tended rather more in the direction of caricature than those I have seen by his illustrious namesake.  Upon the wall of that dug-out in that wood, for instance, was displayed a crude though unmistakable portrait of our revered Brigadier, a fact of which we were but too conscious when our revered Brigadier paid us one night an unexpected visit.

A short conversation ensued, during which the Brigadier gave rein to a reprehensible passion he had for inquiring into the vie intime of junior officers.  Just as he was leaving he turned to Joshua.

“Why do they call you ’Joshua’?” he asked.  Joshua hesitated.  His eyes rested for an infinitesimal moment on the portrait on the wall, then on the face of the Brigadier.  He cursed me inwardly (as he told me afterwards) for having addressed him by this name in such strident tones just as the Brigadier was entering the dug-out; but for the credit of the British Officer I am happy to say that Joshua kept his head and showed that ready wit in an emergency which is the soldier’s greatest virtue.

“Well, Sir,” he said, “I—­I think it’s because JOSHUA was a great warrior.”

“Ah, I hadn’t thought of that,” said the Brigadier as he took his departure, while I subsided in a fainting condition on to the floor of the dug-out and asked for brandy.

That night Joshua stopped a piece of shell with his head.  We managed to get him back, but I did not like the look of him and I quite thought that his number was up.  Before we pushed on next day I took down the portrait of the Brigadier and slipped it into my pocket-book.  I had liked old Joshua well, and I thought I would keep this as a memento not only of his art but of his ability in spontaneous untruth.