T. A.-“Come on? Where? Oh, I see—one of _your_ words. Well?” J. P.—“But, tell me, eet is how long—how far—to Teeperary?” T. A.—(Desperately) “Now look here, old dear; I’ve had enough of this. You take it from me there’s some things you bally well _can’t_ get the hang of, and this is one of ’em. Never mind; _donny-moi_ one of those funny little black fags of yours and we’ll toddle to a _caffy_ and drink to William the Conqueror—I _don’t_ think. Come on!” J. P.—“_Comment?_” T. A.—“That’s what I said.” (Takes his arm and sings): “‘It’s a long—’” J. P. (Joining in with huge glee as they go off) “‘—long way to Teeperary, eet’s a long, long way to go-o-o—’” (_Exeunt._) PLENTY TO CHOOSE FROM Will Irwin, the war correspondent, supped in London recently with Lincoln Springfield, editor. “Lord Kitchener,” said Mr. Irwin, “told a young lady some years since that, if he ever married, his choice would be a German widow.” “Well, he’s making plenty of them now,” chuckled Mr. Springfield. WINNING A BET One of the best stories told about Sir John French is how, one night at dinner, some officers were discussing rifle-shooting. The general was listening, as was his wont, without making any remark, until at length he chipped in with: “Say, I’ll bet anyone here,” in his calm, quiet, deliberate way, “that I can fire ten shots at 500 yards and call each shot correctly without waiting for the marker. I’ll stake a box of cigars on it.” The major present accepted the offer, and the next morning the whole mess was at the shooting range to see the trial. Sir John fired. “Miss!” he announced. He fired again. “Miss!” he repeated. A third shot. “Miss!” “Hold on there!” protested the major. “What are you doing? You are not shooting at the target at all.” But French finished his task. “Miss!” “Miss!” “Miss!” “Of course I wasn’t shooting at the target,” he said. “I was shooting for those cigars.” COCKNEY GERMAN He was a shining light of the Intelligence Corps, and before he arrived at Swakopmund his abilities as a linguist were spoken of with bated breath. To him there came his captain. “Glad you’ve come, Jones,” said he; “we need a man who speaks German. Take a file and go down and tell that officer we made a prisoner yesterday that I’ll give him parole, but if he attempts to escape he’ll be shot.” Off marched Jones, full of the importance of his task. “_Sprechen sie Deutsch?_” he asked the chap, to the great admiration of the onlookers. “_Ja, ja_,” said the big German, eagerly, glad to find some one who understood him at last. “Oh! yer do—do yer?” said Jones. “Well, old sauerkraut, the captain says as ’ow ’e’ll give yer parole, but if you blooming well tries to skip it, there’s a bullet for yer! See?” IT PAYS TO ADVERTISE