"Yes, in your case, Sinclair, it is merely moral cowardice," said Henry. "But it's queer about golf. Every one admits that billiards is all right, and--I think--Badminton." "Well, perhaps I am a bit over-sensitive," said I, "but I'm bound to say that even if I were playing billiards in a public place at present I should feel happier if I used the butt end of the cue." "The problem seems to be closely allied," said the Reverend Henry, "to the problem of Sabbath observance when I was a child. We were very strict in our household. We were not allowed to play games of any sort on Sunday so long as they were played according to the accepted rules; but we discovered after a time that if we played them _wrong_ no one objected. We should certainly have been punished for playing tennis with a tennis racquet, but if we played with a walking-stick or the flat side of a pair of bellows there was not the slightest objection." "That's what I feel like," said Sinclair. "I don't want to do the old things in the old ways." "We never have people to dinner now," said I, "but we have shoals to lunch." "It is all deplorably illogical," said the Reverend Henry. "But so long as one has a sense of decency it seems impossible to scorch about in a motor bulging with golf clubs." "Quite impossible. I propose that we get Mrs. Henry to make us some sandwiches and go for a long walk." It was at this juncture that the morning papers came in with the news of the battle cruiser victory in the North Sea.... We had a fine run across the moor in the big car, an excellent lunch at "The George," and managed to get in two rounds before it was dark. * * * * * [Illustration: OUR SPECIAL VOLUNTEER RESERVES. _Instructor._ "CHANGE ARMS BY NUMBERS. ONE--TWO----COME ALONG, SIR! WHAT ARE YOU PLAYING AT NOW? KEEP YOUR BANJO SOLO FOR THE DOMESTIC HEARTH."] * * * * * ON THE SPY TRAIL. II. People don't always know that Jimmy's dog is a bloodhound. One man said it was a Great Scott--at least that is what he said when he saw it. You see, when it is pensive, it sometimes looks like a spaniel and sometimes like an Airedale--or it would if it hadn't got smooth hair and a bushy tail which curls. Jimmy was undecided for a long time what to call it. The milkman said Jimmy ought to call it "For instance," and then people would know what it was for. The milkman thought of a lot more names before a week was over, for Jimmy's bloodhound tracked down a can of his milk and lapped it up. It is a very good lapper. It lapped so hard that Jimmy had to pull the can off its head. Jimmy said it was the suction and that all good bloodhounds were like that. A man stopped Jimmy in the street and asked him if that was the dog that tracked down the German spy to his lair. Jimmy said it was, and the man was very pleased: he patted the bloodhound on the head and said, "Good old Faithful!"--just like that.