I sprang out of range, and then, wishing to atone for my previous blunders and prove that I really had no malevolent intentions towards a struggling industry, I went round and assisted the caracoling producer in stemming the crowd. Among others I stemmed a pushful policeman. I didn't notice he was a policeman until he was biting the dust, with my stick between his legs. However an instantaneous application of palm-oil made it all right between us, and he squatted half-stunned on the kerb, nursing his brow with one hand, my five bob with the other and took no further interest in the proceedings. And very interesting they were, too. Three masked men dashed out of the shop laden with booty and were pursued by a fourth, whom they knocked on the head and left lying for dead on the pavement. Most realistic. The crowd, led by me, cheered like mad. Then the thieves jumped into a waiting car and were whirled away. That done, the photographer and his step-dancing friend leapt into a second car and were whirled away also. Once more we cheered. I made a short speech to the effect that everything was all right with the British Cinema business and, after leading a few more cheers for myself, came home. "Well," you say, "all very jolly and so on, but what about it?" There's this about it, old companion, just this, that I am very probably spending a meditative winter in gaol. The charge is that I did aid and abet a peculiarly ingenious gang of desperadoes to blow a jeweller's safe, knock the jeweller on the head and get safely away with the stuff. I am even accused of obstructing the police. An inspector has been round to see me this morning and he tells me there is practically no hope. He advises me, as between friends, to make a clean breast of it, return the boodle, betray my accomplices, plead mental deficiency and trust to the clemency of the Court. It's pretty rough, after making all arrangements for spending a cheerful Christmas in Algiers, to have it changed to cold porridge in Parkhurst or Princetown. Of the two I hope it'll be Parkhurst, for Princetown, so _habitues_ tell me, is no place for a growing lad when the wintry winds do blow. Thine, _de profundis_ PATLANDER. * * * * * [Illustration: _Mistress._ "WOULD YOU LIKE TO GO OUT THIS AFTERNOON, MABEL?" _Mabel._ "I _AM_ GOING OUT."] * * * * * Rhymes of Unrest. There was a young miner of Ayr Who gave himself up to despair; For he said, "If we're paid On our 'get,' I'm afraid That I canna ca' canny no mair." "Strike while the iron is hot," Said the wise old saw of old; But the miners say, "What rot! Strike while the weather's cold." * * * * * "The art of decoration is alien to painting in this--that you must mix your colours with your brains."--_Daily Paper._ We await a reply from the intellectuals of Chelsea.