_The Marshal_. What, again? This is too much--who are you? Who? WHO? General VON KLUCK? Impossible. General VON KLUCK's dead. What--not dead? Anyhow, nobody's heard of him for months. If you're really General VON KLUCK I'm afraid we must consider you to be dead. The EMPEROR won't regard it as very good taste on your part to come to life again like this. He's very unforgiving, you know. You don't care? But, my dear dead General VON KLUCK, you must care. What is it you say you wanted to do? Congratulate me? What on? My splendid defence of the Hindenburg line? Now, look here. As one German General to another do you mean to tell me you believe in the Hindenburg line? No, of course you don't. You thought I believed in it? Was that what you said? Come, don't wriggle, though you are a dead man. Yes, that was what you said. Well, then understand henceforth that there is no Hindenburg line and there never was anything of the sort. Why am I retreating then? Because I must. That's the whole secret. Why did _you_ retreat after your famous oblique march during the Battle of the Marne? Because you had to, of course. There--that's enough. I can't waste any more time. What? Oh, yes, you can congratulate me on anything you like except that. And now you had better return to the grave of your reputation and remain there (_rings off_). _The Telephone_. Rr-rr-rr-rr. _The Marshal_. To h-ll with the telephone! Who is it now? What--an editor of a newspaper? That's a little bit too thick. What is it you want? To thank God for that masterpiece of bold cunning, the Hindenburg line? Is that what you want? Well, make haste, for the masterpiece doesn't exist. No, I'm not joking. I can't joke. Enough (_rings off_). * * * * * [Illustration: _Nervous Recruit_ (_on guard for the first time_). "HALT, FRIEND! WHO GOES THERE?"] * * * * * =THE HOUSE-MASTER.= Four years I spent beneath his rule, For three of which askance I scanned him, And only after leaving school Came thoroughly to understand him; For he was brusque in various ways That jarred upon the modern mother, And scouted as a silly craze The theory of the "elder brother." Renowned at Cambridge as an oar And quite distinguished as a wrangler, He felt incomparably more Pride in his exploits as an angler; He held his fishing on the Test Above the riches of the Speyers, And there he lured me, as his guest, Into the ranks of the "dry-flyers." He made no fetish of the cane As owning any special virtue, But held the discipline of pain, When rightly earned, would never hurt you; With lapses of the normal brand I think he dealt most mercifully, But chastened with a heavy hand The sneak, the liar and the bully.