The Chowder King, or whatever he is called, smiled inscrutably. "No doubt he _could_," he said. "But perhaps," he continued, "you have not seen the Louvre picture since it was put back after the theft?" "Not to examine it closely," I replied. He laughed softly and led the way to the door. Now what I want to know is, is it possible that--? This terrible thought has been haunting me day and night. I have asked many Americans to tell me about this collector and his methods, but I can get no exact information. But it seems to be agreed that he would stick at nothing to get a coveted work beneath his roof. If I have many more such shocks as he gave me I shall give up paint altogether and specialise in photography or the three-colour process. Anyway, it is God's own country, and I will tell you my further adventures as I have them. Tomorrow I am to attend a reception at the White House to hear ELLA WHEELER WILCOX recite an Ode at the President. Yours, X. Y. Z. * * * * * [Illustration: _Mr. Green_. "IT DOESN'T SEEM TO ME TO LOOK QUITE RIGHT." _Artist (engaged solely on account of shortage of labour)._ "WELL, SIR, THE PANEL WAS A BIT ON THE LONG SIDE, BUT I THOUGHT I'D SPUN THE LETTERING OUT VERY NICE."] * * * * * THE MUD LARKS. _Time_--NIGHT. SCENE.--_A shell-pitted plain and a cavalry regiment under canvas thereon. It is not yet "Lights out," and on the right hand the semi-transparent tents and bivouacs glow like giant Chinese lanterns inhabited by shadow figures. From an Officers' mess tent comes the tinkle of a gramophone, rendering classics from "Keep Smiling." In a bivouac an opposition mouth-organ saws at "The Rosary." On the left hand is a dark mass of horses, picketed in parallel lines. They lounge, hips drooping, heads low, in a pleasant after-dinner doze. The Guard lolls against a post, lantern at his feet, droning a fitful accompaniment to the distant mouth-organ. "The hours I spent wiv thee, dear 'eart, are-Stan' still, Ginger--like a string of pearls ter me-ee ... Grrr, Nellie, stop kickin'!" The range of desolate hills in the background is flickering with gun-flashes and grumbling with drum-fire--the Bosch evensong. A bay horse (shifting his weight from one leg to the other)._ Somebody's catching it in the neck to-night. _A chestnut_. Yep. Now if this was 1914, with that racket loose, we'd be standing to. _A gunpack horse_. Why? _Chestnut_. Wind up, sonny. Why, in 1914 our saddles grew into our backs like the ivy and the oak. In 1914-- _A black horse_. Oh, dry up about 1914, old soldier; tell us about the Battle of Hastings and how you came to let WILLIAM'S own Mounted Blunderbusses run all over you. _A bay horse_. Yes, and how you gave the field ten stone and a beating in the retreat to Corunna. What are your personal recollections of NAPOLEON, Rufus? _Chestnut_. You blinkin' conscripts, you! _Black._ Shiss! no bad language, Rufus--ladies present.