smiling entrancedly, as a child smiles at the croon of a conch-shell.

By the way, whilst we are on the subject, who is this MILLS? The
illustrated papers have shown us THE MAN WHO WON THE WAR, the
thousand-and-one sole and only inventors of Tinribs the Tank; their
prattle-pages are crammed daily with portraits of war-worn flag-sellers,
heroic O.B.E.'s, and so on; but what of our other benefactors, the names
of whom are far more familiar to the average Atkins than are those of
the Twelve Apostles or his own Generals? I confess, to a great desire
to behold the features of Mr. MILLS, the bombster (I picture him a
benevolent-looking old gentleman with a flowing white beard), Mr. STOKES
of the gun, Mrs. AYRTON of the gas-fan, and Messrs. ARMSTRONG and
NISSEN, the hutters. Can no enterprising picture-paper supply the want?

But to return to ourselves. With the exception of the faithful
Celestial, the land is empty of human interest. The roads that once
rumbled unceasingly with wheels and swarmed with merry men now run bare
under a sad sky. The deepway side drains, in which our lorries used to
play at submarines, now harbour nothing more exciting than tadpoles. We
are hard-pressed to find mischief for our idle hands to do.

Sherlock the Sleuth keeps himself in fair fettle by prowling round the
countryside and trying to restrain the aborigines from pinching what
little British material they have not already pinched. Yesterday he came
upon a fatigue party of Gauls staggering down a by-way under the shell
of an Armstrong hut. He whooped and gave chase. The Gauls, sighting the
A.P.M. brassard, promptly dumped the hut and dived through a wire fence.
Sherlock hitched his horse to a post and followed afoot, snorting fire
and brimstone. They led him at a smart trot over four acres of boggy
plough, through a brambly plantation, two prickly hedges and a