As the man spoke the gold-and-white walls of the restaurant faded, the clatter of plates and dishes died away, and I was back again in a tiny village shop in Picardy. Across the counter, packed with its curious stock, I saw Monsieur Joseph, with shirt-sleeves rolled up, gravely handing a stick of chocolate to a child, and taking its sou in return. In the diminutive kitchen behind sat a little white-haired old lady with such a look of content on her face as I have rarely seen. Then suddenly I found myself back again in the London restaurant. "Yes," I said to the waiter, "it is possible, as you say, that Monsieur Joseph heard of something better in France." And raising my glass I drank a silent toast. * * * * * [Illustration: THE TUBER'S REPARTEE. GERMAN PIRATE. "GOTT STRAFE ENGLAND!" BRITISH POTATO. "TUBER ÜBER ALLES!"] * * * * * [Illustration: _Crowd_. "WOULD YER LIKE TO GO TO HORSPITAL?"--"SHALL I GET YER A DROP OF BRANDY?"--"DID YER SLIP ON THE BANANA-PEEL?" "DID YER FALL?"--"ARE YER HURT, SIR?"--"SHALL I FETCH A DOCTOR?"--"IS THAT YOUR HAT, SIR?" _Ex-Cabinet Minister_. "THE ANSWERS TO ONE, TWO, FIVE AND SIX ARE IN THE NEGATIVE; TO THREE, FOUR AND SEVEN IN THE AFFIRMATIVE."] * * * * * THE MUD LARKS. You have all seen it in the latest V.C. list--"The Reverend Paul Grayne, Chaplain to the Forces, for conspicuous bravery and gallant example in the face of desperate circumstances." You have all pictured him, the beau-ideal of muscular Christian, the Fighting Parson, eighteen hands high, terrific in wind and limb, with a golden mane and a Greek profile; a Pekinese in the drawing-room, a bull-dog in the arena; a soupçon of Saint FRANCIS with a dash of JOHN L. SULLIVAN--and all that. But we who have met heroes know that they are very seldom of the type which achieves the immortality of the picture post-card. The stalwart with pearly teeth, lilac eyes and curly lashes is C3 at Lloyd's (Sir FRANCIS), and may be heard twice daily at the Frivolity singing, "My Goo-goo Girl from Honolulu" to entranced flappers; while the lad who has Fritzie D. Hun backed on the ropes, clinching for time, is usually gifted with bow legs, freckles, a dented proboscis and a coiffure after the manner of a wire-haired terrier. The Reverend Paul Grayne, V.C., sometime curate of Thorpington Parva, in the county of Hampshire, was no exception to this rule. Æsthetically he was a blot on the landscape; among all the heroes I have met I never saw anything less heroically moulded. He stood about five feet nought and tipped the beam at seven stone nothing. He had a mild chinless face and his long beaky nose, round large spectacles, and trick of cocking his head sideways when conversing, gave him the appearance of an intelligent little dicky-bird.