a reputation to live up to and must be as frightful as possible.
I find the best thing to do is to refer them to the nearest
notice-board, which reads:--

HALT!

VORSICHT!

ALLES VERBOTEN!!!

* * * * *


THE MUD LARKS.

The Visiting Brigadier cracked a walnut and glanced towards the
General. "I wonder if you remember a French interpreter by the name of
de Blavincourt, Sir? He was with you once, I believe."

The A.P.M. across the way paused in the act of tapping a cigarette on
his case. "Little gunner man, wore red plush bags and a blue velvet
hat? Yes, up in the salient in '17."

The General puffed three perfect smoke rings towards the chandelier
(an accomplishment he had acquired thirty-five years previously at the
"Shop" and was still proud of) and smiled. "De Blavincourt? why, yes,
I remember him. He knew more about cooking than all the _chefs_ in
Europe and taught my poisoner to make rations taste like food. Of
course I remember him. Why?"