“But if you only take from the willing,” I inquired, “why do you not ask their permission?”

“I suppose I have given you the right to ask me that question,” he replied with much dignity, “but it is painful to me to have to answer it.  I have not yet sunk so low that I have to beg people for their cast-off sugar.  I may come to it in the end, perhaps.  At present the ‘earnest gaze’ trick is generally sufficient, or, where it fails, a kick on the shin.  But I hate cruelty.”

“Physical cruelty,” I suggested.

“No, any kind of cruelty.  I have said that in your case I made a mistake.  If I could repair it I would.”

“Well,” I said, “here’s something you can do towards it, although it’s little enough.”  And I handed him the ticket the waitress had written out for me.  “And now I’ll go and get a cup of tea somewhere.”

“One moment,” he said, as I rose to go.  “We may meet again.”

“Never!” I said firmly.

“Ah, but we may, I have a number of disguises.  Let me suggest something that will make another mistake of this kind impossible.”

“I am not going to give up my plan,” I said.

“No, don’t,” he answered; “but why not drink the sugared half first?”

* * * * *

Extract from an official letter received “Somewhere in France":—­

“It must be clearly understood that the numbers shown under the heading, ‘Awaiting Leave’ will be the number of all ranks who have not had leave to the United Kingdom since last arrival in this country, whether such arrival was their last return from Leave, or their last arrival in France.”

And the Authorities are still wondering why the “Awaiting Leave” list tallied so exactly with the daily strength.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  A great incentive.  MEHMED (reading despatch from the All-Highest). “’Defend Jerusalem at all costs for my sake.  I was once there myself.’”]

* * * * *

The mud larks.

The ammunition columns on either flank provide us with plenty of amusement.  They seem to live by stealing each other’s mules.  My line-guards tell me that stealthy figures leading shadowy donkeys are crossing to and fro all night long through my lines.  The respective C.O.’s, an Australian and an Irishman, drop in on us from time to time and warn us against each other.  I remain strictly neutral, and so far they have respected my neutrality.  I have taken steps toward this end by surrounding my horses with barbed wire and spring guns, tying bells on them and doubling the guard.

Monk, the Australian, dropped in on us two or three days ago.  “That darn Sinn Feiner is the limit,” said he; “lifted my best moke off me last night while I was up at the batteries.  He’d pinch BALAAM’S ass.”  We murmured condolences, but Monk waived them aside.  “Oh, it’s quite all right.  I wasn’t born yesterday, or the day before for that matter.  I’ll make that merry Fenian weep tears of blood before I’ve finished.  Just you watch.”