began an excursus on the Romans, Johnson, “who happened to be drinking and who caught the Doctor’s eye glaring at him through the side of his tumbler, left off so hastily that he was convulsed for some moments and in the sequel ruined Dr. Blimber’s point.”  He struggled gallantly, but had in the end to give way to an overwhelming paroxysm of coughing.  It was a good cough, but an isolated one, and was perhaps, after all, not equal to Binns’s.

* * * * *

THE GOOD OLD TIMES.

Captain Reginald Jones and Captain James Smith, demobilised, meet accidentally in the waiting-room of a Government office.  Their acquaintanceship had originated in a shell-hole near Plum-Tree Farm in 1916.

Reggie.  Cheerio, old egg.

Jimmy.  Same to you.  Doing anything?

Reggie.  Lord, yes!  I’ve been pushed on to the directorate of the pater’s firm.

Jimmy.  Congrats!

Reggie.  Stow it, old man; I’m simply worried to death.  The whole cabush is on strike.

Jimmy.  The blighters!  What bunch are they?

Reggie.  Stone-breakers.

Jimmy.  Not the stone-breakers, surely?

Reggie.  Yes, the stone-breakers, perish them!

Jimmy.  And are you here about it?

Reggie.  Sure.  The junior director gets all the dirty work to do.

Jimmy.  What a coincidence!  I’m on the same stunt, old thing.

Reggie.  Board of Trade?

Jimmy.  Rats!  Organising secretary of the Stone-breakers’ Union.

Reggie (after, gasp of surprise). Lucky devil.

Jimmy.  Rot!  I’d chuck it if I could afford to.  Don’t you wish sometimes you were back at Plum-Tree Farm?

Reggie.  Crumbs, Jimmy; but weren’t those the glorious days?

* * * * *

    “EX-CROWN PRINCE’S HORSE TO RUN.”—­Heading in “The Times.”

Like master like horse.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  FOR ENTERPRISING DISPERSAL STATIONS.  SPEED UP YOUR OUTPUT BY INSTALLING THE MOVING-STAIRCASE SYSTEM.  NO TIME LOST. GOVERNMENT SUITS “ASSEMBLED” BY SKILLED WORKMEN IN RECORD TIME.]

* * * * *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

(By Mr. Punch’s Staff of Learned Clerks.)

I SHALL begin by saying straight out that Miss CICELY HAMILTON’S new book, William—­an Englishman (SKEFFINGTON), is one of the finest war-stories that anyone has yet given us.  You know already what qualities the author brings to her writing; you may believe me that she has done nothing more real, more nobly conceived, and by consequence more moving than this short tale.  It opens, in a style of half-humorous irony, with an account of the youth, early life and courtship of William,