"Yes," said Stuttfield, "but they do sell it, and people read it." "I expect the circulation's about two thousand a week," I said consolingly. But Stuttfield, as I could see, was not consoled. I met him at intervals after that, and on each occasion he seemed to be more obsessed with the notion that the "Reds" would overwhelm us all shortly. "Russia is Red," he whispered; he always whispers now for fear of being overheard by a Red agent, though there was not very much risk of that in St. James's Street. "And what about India and China?" "Red, black and yellow--the Zingari colours," I said ribaldly, and Stuttfield left me in disgust. Then I heard from a friend that he had sold his cottage at Redhill. This was a bad sign, and I went to see him. I found him much worse. "You've taken an overdose of _The Volcano_," I said. He seized my arm with trembling fingers. "The Red Revolution is upon us," he hissed. I laughed. "Don't you worry about the Red Revolution. You come out to lunch." He would hardly be persuaded. Clubs and restaurants would be attacked first, he thought. If we lunched together it had better be in an eating-house in Bermondsey. "I have a disguise," he said, and disclosed a complete proletarian outfit. "Well, I haven't," I said. "Not that these clothes of mine will lead anyone to mistake me for a capitalist. But, so far as lunch goes, hadn't we better be killed by a Red bomb at the Fitz than by tripe in Bermondsey?" Stuttfield could not but admit the sense of this, so we started out. It is widely recognised that Flag Days, however admirable their objects, have been a little overdone. But it was sheer bad luck that brought Stuttfield face to face with a flag-seller just as we were entering the Fitz. She came at him with a determined aspect and began "The Red Cr----" It was enough. Poor Stuttfield was across the pavement and into a taxi before I could stop him. There was nothing for me to do but follow him. "Where are we going?" I asked. "Waterloo," he answered through blanched lips. I could get nothing more from him. At Waterloo he sprang out, leaving me to pay the cab, and disappeared into the station. I followed as quickly as I could, but he was nowhere to be seen. "Where would he go to hide from the Reds?" I asked myself. Suddenly I had an idea about his destination. I was right. In the foremost carriage I found him. I tried to persuade him to come out, but he clung to the rack. So I left him. I have not seen him since. I hope he feels safe in the Isle of Wight. * * * * * "You can burn your slack cook in oven in our ---- Grate."--_Advt. in Daily Paper._ But now that the coal strike is over we shall try to put up with our cook a little longer. * * * * * [Illustration: _Our Reverend Spoonerist (calling at the Deanery)._ "IS THE BEAN DIZZY?"] * * * * * "WALLASEY'S LOW FIGURE.