The king of curmudgeons could not complain when Mrs. CONYERS is described as "one of the most entertaining hunting novelists of the day," but when Messrs. METHUEN call her book (_A Mixed Pack_) "a collection of Irish sporting stories" I may at least be allowed to wonder at the inadequacy of their description. For the fact of the matter is that a third part of this volume, and by no means the worst part, is concerned with little _Mr. Jones_, a traveller in the firm of _Amos and Samuel Mosenthal_, who were dealers in precious stones and about as Irish and as sporting as their names suggest. _Mr. Jones_, in the opinion of the _Mosenthals_, was the simplest soul that they had ever entrusted with jewels of great value. Although the tales of apparent simpletons who outwit crafty villains are becoming tedious in their frequency, I can still congratulate Mrs. CONYERS upon the thrills and shudders that she gets into these stories of robbery and torture. Not for a moment do I believe in _Mr. Jones_, but for all that I take the little man to my heart. As for the tales of sport, it is enough to say that they are written with so much wit and _verve_ that even I, who am commonly suffocated with boredom when I have to listen to a hunting story, found them quite pleasant to read. * * * * * My expectations of enjoyment on opening _The Whalers_ (HODDER AND STOUGHTON) were _nil_, for the tales of whaling to which from time to time I have been compelled to listen have produced sensations which can only be described as nauseating. Somewhere, somehow, I knew that brave men risked their lives in gaining a precarious livelihood from blubber, but I was more than content to hear no further details either of them or their captures. Let me acknowledge, then, that Mr. J. J. BELL has persuaded me, against my will, of the romance and fascination of the whalers' calling. The twelve stories--or perhaps they ought to be called sketches--in this book contain plenty that is romantic and practically nothing that is repulsive. "There is," the author says with engaging frankness, "much that is slow in whaling. On the whole there is more anxiety than excitement, more labour than sport." Not for me is it to contradict such an authority, but even granted that he is right the fact remains that no one can justly complain of a lack of excitement in these stories, though complaints may legitimately be made that their pathos is sometimes allowed to drop into sentimentality. "The Herr Professor--an Interlude" deserves an especial word of praise, for it proves again that Mr. BELL, when not occupied in other directions, can be simply and delightfully funny. * * * * * [Illustration: _At the War Office._ "OH, PLEASE COULD YOU TELL ME HOW TO FIND LORD KITCHENER'S ROOM? I WANT TO SEE HIM PARTICULARLY, AND I WON'T KEEP HIM LONG. IT'S JUST TO WRITE HIS FAVOURITE AUTHOR AND FLOWER IN MY ALBUM."]