of the greatest urgency, but had never attained the dignity even of long primer. (Sensation.) He thought that in the circumstances they were entitled to address a modest protest to the Editor, to the effect that the use of “pica” should be reserved for the rarest occasions and not be allowed to prejudice the claims of those who were entitled to exercise the indefeasible privilege of “writing to The Times.” (Cheers.)

“Scrutator,” who followed, disclaimed any personal grievance.  His letters had always appeared in large type and on the best pages.  But he drew the line at “pica”; it looked too like an advertisement and destroyed the balance of the page.  In old days an editor controlled the “make-up” of his paper.  Now he was at the mercy of his “maker-up.”

“Judex,” speaking from the body of the hall, said that he had heard the interview in question spoken of as a “splendid scoop.”  He was not certain what the phrase meant, but he did not like the sound of it, and dreaded the prospect of President WILSON being made the subject of a typographical competition between our daily papers.  While the paper shortage lasted this might lead to very serious results in the way of restricting the space available for the ventilation of the views of those present.

An “Anxious Parent” pointed out that the use of “pica” was unfortunate, as it irresistibly suggested “picador,” one who participated in a cruel sport, whereas President WILSON was a most humane and compassionate man and had never assisted at a bull-fight.

After several other speeches it was ultimately resolved to form an association, to be known as the “Anti-Picador League,” and a small committee was appointed to draw up an appeal to the principal Editors to abstain as far as possible from typographical Jumbomania.

* * * * *

BOY (SECOND CLASS).

  BOY (Second Class) John Simpkins, a bad ’un, you must know,
  Was told to swab a plank one day by a First-Class C.P.O.,
  Whose eagle eye, returning, on the deck espied a stain—­
  “Boy Simpkins, fetch your mop, me lad, and swab yon plank again.” 
  Boy Simpkins (Second Class, too!) made as though he wouldn’t go,
  And distinctly muttered “Blast you!” to that First-Class C.P.O.

  The splendid Petty Officer fell flat upon the deck;
  They bore him to the Sick Bay just a weak and worthless wreck;
  But an A.B. who was standing by had caught the wicked word
  And told the Duty Officer exactly what occurred:—­
  “Boy Simpkins (Second Class, too!), which I think yer oughter know, Sir,
  ’Ad the lip ter mutter ‘Blast you!’ ter the Fust-Class C.P.O., Sir.”

  There is silence in the foc’s’le, on the quarter-deck dismay,
  And the lower deck is humming in a most unusual way;
  The working-party pauses as it cleans a six-inch gun,
  And tho Officer on Duty whispers hoarse to “Number One":—­
  “Boy Simpkins (Second Class, too!), I suppose you ought to know, Sir,
  Had the cheek to mutter ‘Blast you!’ to a First-Class C.P.O., Sir.”