P.S.--Would such an arrangement make us "carriages" in the eye of the law? At present we appear to be merely a sub-division of the class "unlighted objects." * * * * * CURE FOR MOTOR-SCORCHERS (_suggested as being even more humane than the proposal of_ Sir R. Payne-Gallwey).--Give them Automobile Beans! * * * * * Illustration: SLOW AND SURE _John._ "I've noticed, miss, as when you 'as a motor, you catches a train, not _the_ train!" * * * * * HOW THE MATCH CAME OFF A HARMONY ON WHEELS (_Miss Angelica has challenged Mr. Wotherspoon to a race on the Queen's highway._) _Fytte 1._ _Mr. W._ Fine start! (Faint heart!) _Miss A._ Horrid hill! (Feeling ill!) _Fytte 2._ _Mr. W._ Going strong! Come along! _Fytte 3._ _Miss A._ Road quite even! Perfect heaven! _Fytte 4._ _Mr. W._ Goal in view! Running true! _Miss A._ Make it faster! Spur your caster! _Fytte 5._ _Mr. W._ Fairly done! _Miss A._ Match is won! [_They dismount. Pause._ _Mr. W._ What! Confess! _Miss A._ Well then--yes! * * * * * Illustration: _Motor Fiend._ "Why don't you get out of the way?" _Victim._ "_What!_ Are you coming back?" * * * * * MOTOROBESITY (_A Forecast_) In the spring of 1913 St. John Skinner came back from Africa, after spending nine or ten years somewhere near the Zambesi. He travelled up to Waterloo by the electric train, and the three very stout men who were in the same first-class compartment seemed to look at him with surprise. On arriving at his hotel he pushed his way through a crowd of fat persons in the hall. Then he changed his clothes, and went round to his Club to dine. The dining-room was filled with members of extraordinary obesity, all eating heartily. In the fat features of one of them he thought he recognised a once familiar face. "Round," said he, "how are you?" The stout man stopped eating, and gazed at him anxiously. "Why," he murmured, after a while, in the soft voice that comes from folds of fat, "it must be Skinner. My dear fellow, what is the matter with you? Have you had a fever?" "I'm all right," answered the other; "what makes you think I've been ill?" "Ill, man!" said Round, "why you've wasted away to nothing. You're a perfect skeleton." "If it's a question of bulk," remarked Skinner, "I'm much more surprised. You've grown so stout, every fellow in the Club seems so stout, everyone I've seen is as fat as--as--as you are." "Heavens!" exclaimed Round, "you don't mean to say I've been putting on more flesh? I'm the light weight of the Club. I only weigh sixteen stone. No, no, you're chaffing, or you judge by your own figure." "Not a bit," said the other; "you and I used to weigh about the same. What on earth has happened to you all?"