Then he began to travel Third Class and gave up Smoking Cigars. And they thought he was waiting till the Stock Exchange opened. Then they noticed that he got no new Clothes and his old ones were not so smart as they used to be. And as the Stock Exchange was open by now they began to believe that he must have become a Miser and was getting meaner as he got older. And they all said it was a Pity. But he went on reading the Papers and pottering round the Garden much as before. And the Tradespeople found that the Books were not so big as they used to be, and they began to say that it was a Pity when people who had Money didn't know how to spend it. But the Truth is that they were all wrong; he was a Collector. That was how the Money went. He never told anyone about his Collection, but he kept it in the Top Drawer of his Desk till it got too big and overflowed into the Second Drawer, and then into the Third, and so on. He was quite determined that his Collection should be complete and should contain Every Sound Specimen--that was partly why he kept reading the Papers. But he didn't mind having Duplicates as long as they had Different Dates. There was one Specimen of which he got a Duplicate every Week. One of his Rules was never to allow any Specimen into his Collection unless it had a Stamp on it. It was quite a New Sort of Collection. It was made up of Receipts from the People who were running All The Different War Funds. * * * * * THE SOLDIER'S COAT. After his ample dinner, William sank into the big chair before the fire, and with a book on his knee became lost in thought. He woke half-an-hour later to observe that Margaret was knitting. "It's sheer waste of time," he told her, "to make anything of wool that colour." "Is it?" she asked sweetly. "If there's no more khaki or brown wool left in the shops, you should make something of flannel. Any self-respecting soldier would rather be frost-bitten to death a dozen times than wear a garment of pink wool." "Do you think so?" asked Margaret, smiling. "Besides, you really ought to stick to the beaten track--belts, mufflers and mittens. Nobody wants ear-muffs." "This is going to be a coat," she said, holding it up and surveying it with satisfaction. "A coat?--that handful of pink, a coat? That feeble likeness of an egg-cosy, a coat? A pink woollen coat for a British soldier! My poor friend over there in the trenches, whoever you are, may Heaven help you! And may Heaven forgive you, Margaret, for this night's work!" "I shan't finish it to-night--it'll take days. And he'll be very proud of it, I know." "Who will?" "The soldier-boy will. Bless his heart; he's a born fighter--anyone can see it with half an eye. Mabel says----" "Oh, one of Mabel's pals, is it? Well, what's Donald doing to allow Mabel to take such an interest in this precious soldier-boy who is prepared to be proud of a coat of soft pink wool? Who is the idiot?"