Private Penny pushed his mug over to be re-filled. "I'm an infantryman myself," he said carelessly, "and I speaks as one that knows. And wot I says is--if you wants a cheerful protected kinder life, with a quiet 'ole to 'ide yer 'ead in--if you wants rest and comfort, kimbined with plenty o' fresh air--if you wants to serve yer King and country without any danger to yer 'ealth, then the infantry's the life for you, and the trenches is the place to spend it in. Ain't I been out there one solid year, and no 'arm 'appened to me yet? It's child's play, that it is, sitting there in a 'ole, with big guns booming over you protective-like from be'ind and killing all the enemy in front for you. And yer food and yer love-letters brought to you regular, and doctors and parsons to see you whenever you feels queer. Take my advice, Percy my son--join the Infantry at once and make sure of a gentleman's life. I've took a fancy to you, and I tells you straight." And he eclipsed himself behind his replenished mug. "Thank you very much," said Percy gratefully, "I can see that the Infantry is the place for me. I shall insist upon joining it. Thank you _very_ much for all your advice----" At this moment a great wave of khaki burst into the room and swept to the counter, clamouring for attention. On the crest of it came Percy's friends in mufti, and once, across the tumult, his voice reached my ears. "... quite decided...." he was saying loftily, "some infantry regiment or other just seems...." and he was jostled away in the centre of an admiring group. Involuntarily I looked across at Private Penny. One eye met mine from behind an upturned mug, and the lid fell and rose again, once, rapidly; he too had heard. * * * * * "A Council of War in the Desert. "British Officers are here seen holding a 'bow-wow.'"--_Western Weekly News._ Very natural. In the desert most days are "dog-days." * * * * * [Illustration: _Colonel_ (_on a round of inspection, during prolonged pause in manoeuvres_). "And what is the disposition of your men, Sergeant?" _Sergeant._ "Fed-up, Sir!"] * * * * * THE NEUTRAL NEWSMONGER. Who cheers us when we're in the blues With reassuring German news Of starving Berliners in queues? The Neutral. And then, soon after, tells us they Are feeding nicely all the day Just in the old familiar way? The Neutral. Who sees the KAISER in Berlin Dejected, haggard, old as sin, And shaking in his hoary skin? The Neutral. Then says he's quite a Sunny Jim, That buoyant health and youthful vim Are sticking out all over him? The Neutral. Who tells us tales of KRUPP'S new guns Much larger than the other ones, And endless trains chockful of Huns? The Neutral. And then, when our last hope has fled, Declares the Huns are either dead Or hopelessly dispirited? The Neutral.