It won’t be the volcano’s fault if the ice doesn’t get melted.

* * * * *

“The complainant was ascending the staircase of the club when he met the defendant, who, speaking of Lemberg, said Lemberg belonged to Russia.  Complainant replied:  ’No, it is in Poland; it cannot belong to Russia,’ when the defendant struck him with some sharp instrument on the top of the head, and the stars had not yet completely healed.”—­Evening Paper.

The constellation referred to must, we think, have been the Great Bear.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  THE DOPED LION.  A STORY OF ANCIENT ROME.]

* * * * *

THE GAME OF THE TELEPHONE.

True sportsmen will regret Mr. ILLINGWORTH’S statement, made recently in the House, when he said, “I have every expectation that the [telephone] service will improve.”

By “improve” he no doubt meant that when we ring up a number in future we shall simply get it; that people who want us will be able to get us, and so on.  It is a dismal prospect.

I only hope the improvement will be delayed until I get my own back.  I have been playing rather a bad line lately, and only this morning lost a set by one game to two.

* * * * *

The operator won the first game before I could get into my stride.  She rang me up three times in five minutes, and each time put me on to nobody.  This was a very bad start, and I determined that I must at least give her a game.  So the third time I held on, mechanically knocking the semi-circular ring arrangement up and down.  There is always a chance that your signal may be working, and it annoys the operator.  But she beat me by a swift stroke.

“What number do you want?” she asked cynically.  I said, “Well played, Sir—­Madam!” Then she rubbed it in with a parting shot:  “Sorry you have been terroubled,” she said, and cut me off.  Love—­one.

* * * * *

“Hullo!” I said, when my bell rang the next time.

“Put me through to Extension 8, please.”

The only thing to do with this sort of shot is to return it safely.

“Sorry, old chap,” I said, “I haven’t got one.”

“Haven’t what?” he said.

“Got one.”

“One what?”

“Extension.”

Then he became annoyed and shouted, “Aren’t you the War Office?”

“No,” I answered, “I am not the War Office.”

“Aren’t you the War Off—­”

But I clapped on my receiver.  In fact I clapped it on so violently that I thought I had silenced the thing for good and all.

A series of tugging ineffective clicks on the part of my bell decided me to investigate.  This move on my part was to win me the game.

I took off my receiver and listened.  No answer.  I banged the rigging.  No answer.  I banged and thumped.