Now it sounds silly, but a cold prespiration came over me. Being tickled is so hopelessly undignified. And, anyhow, I simply can't stand it on the feet. "John," I said severely, "don't be absurd." Christopher gurgled. "He's afraid," he said. "Come on, Dad." I saw that they really meant it, and I can only suppose that I was carried away by one of those panics that you read of as attacking the bravest at times. Anyhow, quite suddenly I found myself moving rapidly round the table, out of the door and up the stairs. Halfway up I stopped to listen. Cecilia and John were laughing loudly and coarsely and Christopher was chanting "Uncle's got the wind up" in a piercing treble. Not at all a nice phrase for a small boy to have on his tongue. It was all very galling for one who has fought and, I may say, bled for his country. I almost decided to go back and fight if necessary. Then I heard a stage-whisper from Christopher: "Let's creep upstairs after him and tickle him to death. Shall we, Dad?" Sheer hooliganism. It was impossible to fight with honour against such opponents. I disdained to try. I went hastily up the remaining stairs and locked myself in my room. * * * * * [Illustration: _Polite Straphanger (to lady who has been standing on his toes for a considerable time)._ "PARDON ME, MADAM, BUT YOU'LL HAVE TO GET OFF HERE--THIS IS AS FAR AS I GO."] * * * * * THE INTERNATIONALIST. "What on earth," I said to the waiter, who was standing a few yards off, lost in a pensive dream of his native land--Switzerland, France, Italy?-- well, anyhow, lost in a pensive dream--"what on earth is a Petrograd steak?" The white napkin whisked like the scut of a rabbit, and he bounded to my side. "Eet is mince-up," he said melodramatically. "Ze Petrograd steak ver good. Two minute--mince-up." "But isn't that a Vienna steak?" I asked. A spasm of pain passed over his face. "Before ze War," he whispered, "yes, Vienna steak. Now we call it ze Petrograd. You vill have one? Yes? Two minute."