The current week is "Navy Week," and Mr. Punch begs to urge his kind friends to take their part in the great organised effort to raise a large sum for the benefit of our sailors and their families--R.N., R.N.R., R.N.V.R., trawlers and mine-sweepers. The nation owes them all a debt that can never be paid. The fund is to be administered on the lines of King Edward's Hospital Fund. An All-American matinée will be given in this good cause at the Victoria Palace on Thursday, July 26th, and _Trelawny of the Wells_ (with Miss IRENE VANBRUGH) at the New Theatre on Friday. Gifts for the fund may be addressed to Commodore Sir RICHARD WILLIAMS-BULKELEY, Bt., at the offices of "Navy Week," 5, Green Street, Leicester Square, W.C. 2. * * * * * [Illustration: THE SCRAPPER SCRAPPED.] * * * * * [Illustration: _Sergeant_ (_to cadet_). "SIT BACK, SIR! SIT BACK! THINK WOT A BLINKIN' FOOL YOU'D LOOK IF 'IS 'EAD WAS TO COME ORF!"] * * * * * THE WATCH DOGS. LXIII. My dear Charles,--I never meant to give myself away; I meant to go on talking about the old War till the end, just as if I was taking a leading part in it, so that you should have still believed I was doing the bull-dog business with the best of them. But no, let me be honest and tell you that I have practically ceased to be a dog. The only painful connection I can boast of recently with the War is that, having cause to travel from place to place in this country, I was unhappy enough to strike six meatless days in succession, which gave me to think that even embusquing in France has its drawbacks. On the seventh day I was accused, by good people who know not Thomas, of being (1) a Russian, (2) an American, (3) a Belgian, and (4) an Irishman, which made me feel that these gaudy colours I have burst into are not so famous as I supposed; and on the eighth day I find myself insulted in twenty-seven places by an angry mosquito, whom in the small hours of the morning I had occasion to rap over the knuckles and turn out of my billet. And I've got a nasty cold, and nobody loves me or cleans my buttons, and if I want to go anywhere there are no more motor cars and they make me pay a penny for the tram, and my wife doesn't think I'm a hero any longer, and little James is being taught to blush and look away and start another subject when anybody says "Dad-dad," and (if you can believe this) I've just been made to pay a franc-and-a-half for a tin of bully beef.