“I only said you were wonderful.” “I 'eard you.” “But you are. I don't know what the country would do without you. Your solid qualities, your imperturbable bonhomie, your truly British tenderness towards——” “Pass away!” said the officer. “I am only repeating what we all say of you,” rejoined Mr. Lavender reproachfully. “Did you 'ear me say 'Move on,'” said the officer; “or must I make you an example?” “YOU are the example,” said Mr. Lavender warmly. “Any more names,” returned the officer, “and I take you to the station.” And he moved out into the traffic. Puzzled by his unfriendliness Mr. Lavender resumed his search, and, arriving at the door indicated, went in. A dark, dusty, deserted corridor led him nowhere, till he came on a little girl in a brown frock, with her hair down her back. “Can you tell me, little one——” he said, laying his hand on her head. “Chuck it!” said the little girl. “No, no!” responded Mr. Lavender, deeply hurt. “Can you tell me where I can find the Minister?” “'Ave you an appointment? “No; but I wrote to him. He should expect me.” “Wot nyme?” “John Lavender. Here is my card.” “I'll tyke it in. Wyte 'ere!” “Wonderful!” mused Mr. Lavender; “the patriotic impulse already stirring in these little hearts! What was the stanza of that patriotic poet? “'Lives not a babe who shall not feel the pulse Of Britain's need beat wild in Britain's wrist. And, sacrificial, in the world's convulse Put up its lips to be by Britain kissed.' “So young to bring their lives to the service of the country!” “Come on,” said the little girl, reappearing suddenly; “e'll see you.” Mr. Lavender entered a room which had a considerable resemblance to the office of a lawyer save for the absence of tomes. It seemed furnished almost exclusively by the Minister, who sat with knees crossed, in a pair of large round tortoiseshell spectacles, which did not, however, veil the keenness of his eyes. He was a man with close cropped grey hair, a broad, yellow, clean-shaven face, and thrusting grey eyes. “Mr. Lavender,” he said, in a raw, forcible voice; “sit down, will you?” “I wrote to you,” began our hero, “expressing the wish to offer myself as a speaker.” “Ah!” said the Minister. “Let's see—Lavender, Lavender. Here's your letter.” And extracting a letter from a file he read it, avoiding with difficulty his tortoise-shell spectacles. “You want to stump the country? M.A., Barrister, and Fellow of the Zoological. Are you a good speaker?” “If zeal—-” began Mr. Lavender. “That's it; spark! We're out to win this war, sir.” “Quite so,” began Mr. Lavender. “If devotion——” “You'll have to use gas,” said the Minister; “and we don't pay.” “Pay!” cried Mr. Lavender with horror; “no, indeed!” The Minister bent on him a shrewd glance. “What's your line? Anything particular, or just general patriotism? I recommend that; but you'll have to put some punch into it, you know.”