“Yes, yes,” she said rather peevishly, “I am attending to you as quickly as I can.  What number do you want?”

“Well,” I explained, “as a matter of fact I don’t want a number.  I only wondered if my line was all right.  Sorry you have been terroubled,” and I cut her off.  One—­all.

* * * * *

The third and last game started briskly.  In the course of the first ten minutes I was rung up and asked if I was—­

1.  The Timber Control.

2.  Mr. Awl or All.

3.  The Timber Control (again).

4.  The London Diocesan Church Schools. (At this point I rather lost my head and answered, “D——­ the London Diocesan Church Schools.”)

My impiety offended the Bishop (I assume it was a Bishop), and he, rather unfairly, must have incited the gods to take sides against me.  In a lucid interval, while I was doing a call of my own, the operator, without giving me any warning, switched me on to the supervisor.  This must have been an inspiration from Olympus.  However I was equal to the emergency; nay, took advantage of it.  Experience has taught me that it is always best to talk to the person you get, whether you want that person or not.  So I explained to the supervisor that I was a busy man, although the rumour which ascribed to my shoulders the War Office, the Timber Control and the L.D.C.S. was, at the moment, unfounded.

She played up magnificently; took my number, my name, my address, the date, the time of the day, how many times I had been rung up, whom by and when, and was going to ask me the date of my birth and whether I was married or single, when I protested.  Then she calmed down and said she would have my line seen to.

The game seemed to be going well; but again I was beaten by a swift stroke.  My bell rang.

“Telephone Engineering Department speaking,” it said.  “We have received a report that your line is out of order.  We are sending a man and hope he will finish the job before luncheon.”

This was the end, as anyone knows who has ever got into the clutches:  of the Telephone Engineering Department.

“Please,” I said (my spirit was quite broken)—­“please, for God’s sake, don’t send a man.  Not this morning at any rate.  Put it off, there’s a good fellow.”

“But I thought there was something wrong—­”

“Oh, no, not at all.  It’s a hideous mistake.  My line never behaved better in its life.  It’s a positive joy to me.”

I have it on Mr. BALFOUR’S authority that all truth cannot be told at all times.  But I had lost the set.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  THE THIRST FOR EDUCATION.

Mother.  “Wot’s all this ‘ubbub goin’ on indoors?”

Daughter.  “Baby’s bin and licked ’Erbert’s ’ome lessons orf ’is slate.”]

* * * * *

“On Friday, March 7th, Messrs. ——­, on the instructions of the executors of the late Mr. ——­, are selling by auction in pneumonia and acute influenzal pneu-built cottages situate in Chapel Street.”—­Provincial Paper.

Personally we were not bidding.