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[Illustration:  Staff Officer (accustomed to staff-car pace). “HERE, CABBY—­LET ME OUT.  I’D RATHER WALK.”

Antique Jehu (who thinks he has to do with a “shell-shock” case). “IT’S ALL RIGHT, SIR.  I’M GOING VERY CAREFUL.”

S.O. “I KNOW.  BUT I’M SO AFRAID OF SOMETHING RUNNING INTO US FROM BEHIND.”]

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OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

(BY MR. PUNCH’S STAFF OF LEARNED CLERKS.)

When a story bears the attractive title of The House of Courage (DUCKWORTH); when it begins in the Spring of 1914 with a number of pleasantly prosperous people whose faith in the continuance of this prosperity is frequently emphasised ("as if they had a contract with God Almighty” is how an observant character phrases it); and when, in the first chapter, the hero has an encounter with two Germans in a Soho restaurant—­well, it requires no great guessing to tell what will happen before we are through with it.  And, in fact, Mrs. VICTOR RICKARD’S latest is yet another war-story; though with this novelty, that the hero’s experiences of service are almost entirely gained in a German prison-camp.  As perhaps I need not say, both divisions of the tale are admirably written.  It is hardly the author’s fault that the earlier half, with its pictures of a genial hunting society in County Cork, is distinctly more entertaining than the scenes of boredom and brutality at Crefeld, well-conveyed as these are and almost over-realistic and convincing.  Inevitably too the scheme is one of incident rather than character.  One has never any very serious doubt that in the long run the hero, Kennedy, will marry the girl of his choice, despite the fact of her engagement to the clearly unworthy Harrington.  But as part of the long run was from Crefeld to the Dutch frontier, over every obstacle that you can imagine (and a few more, including an admirable thrill almost on the post), one is left with the comfortable feeling that the prize was well earned.  You will rightly judge that most of The House of Courage is rather more frankly sensational than Mrs. RICKARD’S previous war-work; but it remains an excellent yarn.

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When Esme Hillier, possessed by The Imp (HODDER AND STOUGHTON), was only ten, in a fit of annoyance she pushed the hero (to whom she had had no previous introduction) into the sea.  I have some sympathy with her energetic protest, for a Highland Chieftain even at the age of sixteen should know better than to row about in an open boat kissing a young lady. Esme, a pained spectator, showed her public spirit by punishing his bad form, but in the act she sealed her own fate, for after this it was inevitable that they should ultimately marry each other, the girl of the kissing episode notwithstanding.  The immediate incentive to their union, which was by the