In the Small Arms factory next door the night-watchman was making himself comfortable against his vigil. By means of a pile of straw-filled cases he constructed an easy-chair. The light of the small caged gas-jet being insufficient to illuminate his Late Football Extra, he produced from his pocket a stump of candle and waxed it to the top of one of the cases. This done, he ensconced himself luxuriously, spread out the paper, and settled down for a “nice read.” Meanwhile the third act of “The Flag” proceeded. Eddies of rebellion were already lapping against the walls of the consulate. The Colonel’s daughter, disguised as a gipsy, had dropped from the walls and was away in search of aid—and the audience had begun to realise that in the next act there would be trouble, with a capital “T.” They were right. The print of the halfpenny Football Edition, held in the hands of the night-watchman, began to blur. Delicious little thrills of fatigue pulsed through his limbs. He reflected how foolish he had been never before to have disposed himself so comfortably. Also he reflected how good that pint of dinner ale had been, partaken before coming on duty. Odd thing he had never drunk of dinner ale before! In the future he would remedy that omission—a rounder, mellower and more palatable beverage would be hard to conceive. He closed his eyes and allowed his imagination to picture the big glass tankard and the burnt Sienna distillation it had contained. He tried to open them again but they revolted against the impulse. “Aft’ all,” he muttered, “aft’ all—wha’s it marrer?” The paper slipped from his fingers and dropped to the top of the case beside the candle. His hand made a lumbering, futile gesture to regain it, then fell to his knee and skidded off inertly. His head rolled a trifle, lurched forward and his body went limp. Then came the heavy regular purr of a man breathing.