* * * * * A QUESTION OF TACTICS. Poor Jones! I often think of him--a patriot of the super-dreadnought type, with an apoplectic conviction that the whole conduct of the War, on the part of the Allies, had been from the outset a series of gigantic mistakes. "I don't believe in all this spade and chess-board work," he used to growl; "up and at'em, that's my motto. Magnificent fighting material we've got at the Front, but what we want is brains, Sir, brains to use it." And then (though I could never understand why he did this) he would tap his own forehead. At the end of October we all agreed not to argue with Jones any more. Peters, who in his younger days very nearly qualified for the medical profession, said that for short-necked, wine-coloured persons like our friend anything in the nature of a heated discussion might easily lead to fatal results. So partly out of consideration for the Empire, which we felt could not afford in the present crisis to lose a single man, even Jones, partly out of consideration for Mrs. Jones (though here we were perhaps influenced by a sentiment of mistaken kindness), and partly out of consideration for ourselves we decided to avoid the topic of the War when conversing with Jones. It proved very difficult to carry out our resolution. When a man is determined to discuss the War, the whole War, and nothing but the War, with everybody he meets, it is hard to side-track him. You can, of course, after listening to his views on coast defences, endeavour to turn the conversation by saying, "Yes, certainly; and by the way, speaking of Sheringham, I have an uncle, a retired minor canon of Exeter, who still deprecates the custom of mixed bathing"; or, "I quite agree with you, and that reminds me, have you heard that all the best people on the Essex coast are insuring against twins this season?" But even efforts like these are often of little avail. There is only one really effective course to pursue, and that is to avoid your adversary altogether. This was what we had to do with poor Jones. One morning during the second week in November I was walking down the High Street, when I espied Jones conversing with a friend outside the butcher's. He was gesticulating with a newspaper in his hand and wore an angry expression. Knowing that there was not a moment to be lost, I dived into the nearest shop. "Yes, Sir?" There are, I doubt not, some who find a peculiar charm in the voice of the young female haberdasher; but I am not of them. It is a dreadful thing to be alone in a ladies' and children's outfitter's; these establishments are apt to contain so many articles that no self-respecting man should know anything about. As I realised where I was I shuddered. "Yes, Sir?" said the voice again.