  British Lion. "HALLO! STARTED FLYING AGAIN ALREADY?" German Eagle. "OH, PURELY A COMMERCIAL FLUTTER." British Lion (to himself). "I REMEMBER HEARING THAT SAME YARN ABOUT THEIR NAVY. TIME I DEVELOPED MY WINGS AGAIN." ["In Germany there are millions of men firmly determined to win back by the air what they have lost by sea and on land." General Seeley. ESSENCE OF PARLIAMENT.'MANY YEARS AGO.' "MANY YEARS AGO." Sir Eric Geddes at a Sunday School treat. Monday, June 7th.— "Has the right hon. gentleman any experience of Sunday School treats?" asked Mr. Inskip after the Minister of Transport had announced that the railway companies, while conceding reduced fares for these outings, could not extend the facilities to more than one adult for every ten children. Sir Eric Geddes admitted that his experience was "many years ago." There must have been "giants in those days" among the Sunday School teachers if one of them was able to "moderate the transports" of ten little Erics. The Prime Minister had discarded the jaunty grey suit which he wore last week, and in his "blacks" looked rather like a Scottish elder. Nevertheless, when requested by Mr. MacCallum Scott to interpret the articles of the "Auld Kirk" he declined to rush in where Mr. Bonar Law had feared to tread, and contented himself with the remark that this was "a very dangerous question for a mere Southerner." The negotiations with M. Krassin caused many inquiries. Mr. William Shaw, for example, sought a guarantee that the Bolshevists should not be allowed to pay for the goods they might now order with the stores that they had seized from His Majesty's Government. One is reminded of Phil May's publican, who took the theft of his pewters philosophically, but was moved to strong protest when the thief brought them back in the form of bad half-crowns. Coalitionist anxiety in regard to the Prime Minister's flirtation with the Soviet emissary took shape in a motion for the adjournment moved by Colonel Gretton, who was shocked at the idea of negotiating with a Government that depended on violence, and seconded by Admiral Sir R. Hall, who doubted whether there was anything to be got out of Russia. Mr. Lloyd George replied that, according to the evidence of anti-Bolshevist refugees, there were quantities of grain and raw materials awaiting export, while in regard to the general question he poured much rhetorical contempt on the argument that we were never to trade with a country that was misgoverned. What about Turkey? What about Mexico? "You cannot always examine the records of your customers." Earlier in the day Sir A. Griffith Boscawen had moved the Second Reading of the Agriculture Bill with so much vigour and enthusiasm that one wondered why a Bill so vital to the national well-being had not been introduced a little earlier. Later speakers were less friendly. Mr. Acland declared that the measure was only necessary because the Government could not keep the country out of international difficulties. Captain Fitzroy complained that the Bill did too much for the tenant-farmer; whereas Mr. Cautley described it as the tenant-farmer's death-knell. Tuesday, June 8th.— The prevalent belief that Mr. Churchill is always spoiling for a fight, and is mainly responsible for all the wars now going on in various parts of the world, is, I am ready to believe, entirely erroneous. But there is no doubt of his desire to "see red" so far as His Majesty's Army is concerned. The report that the Government intended to spend three millions in putting our soldiers back into the traditional scarlet inspired a multitude of questions to the War Secretary this afternoon. Mr. Churchill declared it to be grossly exaggerated. Nevertheless, in political circles it is believed that at the next election the Government can rely with confidence upon the nurserymaids' vote. MR. CHURCHILL SEES RED. MR. CHURCHILL SEES RED.Army Uniform (1) as it is; (2) As it was before the war and will be again; and (3) as to suit Mr. Churchill's Marlborough traditions, it should have been. In resisting the proposal to make a levy on capital Mr. Chamberlain covered the ground so exhaustively that, as Sir F. Banbury subsequently observed, the chief complaint to be made of his speech was that it was not delivered three months before, when it would have saved the money-market great anxiety and prevented much depreciation of capital. For, according to the Chancellor of the Exchequer, a levy on war-wealth was never really practicable, and even if it had been would have had no effect upon the amount of the floating debt, his most pressing problem. But, if so, why not have said it at the start, instead of setting up a Committee to try to find a solution for the insoluble? Mr. Chamberlain's contention that by the income-tax and super-tax wealth was already heavily conscripted would have perhaps been better left without illustration. His case of the gentleman with £131,000 a year, who after paying his taxes had only £42,500 to spend, left Mr. Stephen Walsh quite cold. Sir Donald Maclean, by some odd process of reasoning, came to the conclusion that the Government's decision would be welcomed by all the enemies of capital, and announced his intention of joining the Labour Party in the Lobby. Wednesday, June 9th.— The Air Navigation At first blush you would hardly think it necessary to include the City Corporation among the local authorities who may establish aerodromes. The "one square mile" does not offer much encouragement to the airman who wishes to make a safe landing. But you never can tell what may happen. The "Old Lady of Threadneedle Street," who is said to be contemplating an upward extension of her premises, may perhaps welcome aeroplanes to her hospitable roof, and thereby give a new significance to "banking" in the aviator's vocabulary. In the Commons the anomalous position produced by President Wilson's undertaking to delimit the boundaries of Armenia, although his country has refused to accept the mandate for its administration, elicited from Mr. Bonar Law the curious explanation that the invitation to delimit was addressed to Mr. Wilson "in his personal capacity." But when Mr. Bottomley sought further light on this phrase Mr. Law was unable or unwilling to supply it. He did, however, vouchsafe the information that, whatever America might do, this country would not add Armenia to its existing share of "the white man's burden." 'Delighted you were able to turn up! You don't mind our having started without you?' Resourceful Spokesman of Picnic Party (anticipating trouble). "Delighted you were able to turn up! You don't mind our having started without you?" Thursday, June 10th.—It seems a pity that since Count de Salis left Montenegro and made his famous secret report the British Government has had no representative in that distracted country. In the absence of official information the most diverse descriptions of its present state gain currency. According to Lord Sydenham the Serbians, who wish to incorporate Montenegro in the new Jugo-Slavia, are taking every step to intimidate their opponents (described as ninety per cent. of the population) and have incidentally imprisoned a number of ex-Ministers. Lord Curzon agreed that this was quite probable, inasmuch as ex-Ministers bore a considerable ratio to the whole population, but otherwise challenged Lord Sydenham's allegations. His own information (source not named) was that the Montenegrin majority was in favour of Yugo-Slav union. The debate confirmed the impression that all statements emanating from the Black Mountain should be taken cum grano de Salis. In the Commons Mr. Bonar Law was taking a day off, and, as usually happens when the Prime Minister is in charge, "a certain liveliness" prevailed. The renewed offensive of General Wrangel incited the Bolshevist sympathisers to start one on their own account. An attempt to move the adjournment was nipped in the bud by the Speaker. Colonel Wedgwood made a gallant effort to usurp the functions of the Chair by declaring that the matter was both definite and urgent; but Mr. Lowther replied that unfortunately the decision rested with him and not with the hon. Member. The House then settled down to business, and gave a Third Reading to two Bills, and a Second Reading to five others. On the Women, Young Persons and Children (Employment) Bill Mr. Barnes took exception, not unnaturally, to a clause permitting "the employment of women and young persons in shifts up to ten o'clock at night," and Major Baird undertook to consider the withdrawal of this equivocal piece of draftsmanship. "'The time has come,' the walrus said, 'To speak of many things: Of shoes and ships and sealing-wax, Of cabbages and kings.'—(O. Henry)." Free State Paper. Where did Lewis Carroll? Apparently not in the Free State. Curate (discussing the drink question). 'Mind you, I'm fond of a glass of beer. myself, but I can't indulge. It doesn't agree with me' Curate (discussing the drink question). "Mind you, I'm fond of a glass of beer. myself, but I can't indulge. It doesn't agree with me." Rustic (sympathetically). "Dear, dear! Ain't there no cure?" THE FUTURE OF APSLEY HOUSE.Conflicting Statements.The possibility of a super-dancing-saloon being erected on the site of Apsley House is, we fear, likely to be relegated to the limbo of lost opportunities. It will be remembered that a few weeks ago London in general and the West-End in particular was excited and delighted by the announcement that Apsley House had been sold to an influential syndicate and would shortly be converted into a massive and monumental block, forty storeys high, crowned with the dancing-saloon and including a concert-hall with the most powerful organ in the world, and a swimming-bath with salt water conveyed by a special pipe from Brighton. It will also be remembered that Mr. Chumpley Swope, the chairman of the syndicate, issued a powerful manifesto in which he explained the purely humanitarian motives of the enterprise—to obliterate the militaristic associations of the site; to replace an unsightly building by a fabric which would be one of the architectural glories of London, and simultaneously to cheer the patients in St. George's Hospital with the sounds of harmony by night. Unhappily the realisation of these beneficent and artistic designs seems likely to be indefinitely postponed, to judge from the authoritative statements made to our representative by Mr. Doremus Pomerene, architect to the owners, and by Mr. Chumpley Swope himself. "There never was any idea," said Mr. Pomerene, "in the minds of the present owners, Mr. Otis Flather and Mr. Virgil Onderdonk, of converting the site of Apsley House to the uses of a super-dancing-saloon. Mr. Flather is a convinced opponent of the dancing mania and President of the Anti-Tarantulation League, while Mr. Onderdonk has always been a profound admirer of the great Duke of Wellington. Subject to the approval of the present Duke it is our intention to re-erect Apsley House on the Playing Fields at Eton, and utilise the site for the building of flats for the New Poor." "The erection of a Neo-Georgian super-dancing-saloon on the Piccadilly frontage of Apsley House," said Mr. Chumpley Swope, "has long been the dearest dream of my heart. My first negotiations with Messrs. Shumway and Prudden were conducted for the express purpose of facilitating the realisation of this project. Moreover, when Mr. Flather joined me in the purchase of the entire site his representative, Mr. Onderdonk, was fully aware of my plans and expressed his cordial approval thereof. "Eventually my friends and I accepted offers made to us by Mr. Flather whereby the entire site was vested in him, subject to an agreement that the Piccadilly frontage to a depth of two hundred kilowatts should be reserved for the erection of the dancing-saloon, the concert-hall and the swimming-bath. "Owing however to the difficulties connected with the laying of the pipe from Brighton and the unaccountable and irrational hostility displayed by the Governing Body of St. George's Hospital the plan of erecting this Temple of Terpsichore has fallen into abeyance and the West-End is threatened with the loss of an educational asset of incomparable value. I may add, however, that negotiations have been opened with the Dean and Chapter of Westminster and that I do not altogether despair of obtaining an alternative site and making a fresh start with my plans for beautifying and humanising London." Limitations.There was a young lady of Clacton Whose knowledge was wide and exact on Jazz, jumpers and plays And the cinema craze; But she never had heard of Lord Acton.
This helps us a little to appreciate the confusion of Mexican politics. PERSISTENCE OF THE MILITARY.In pre-war days, when one's health was tested at the order of a verbally polite but fundamentally distrustful insurance company, the examination was a pleasant affair, conducted by a benign old gentleman who behaved like one's own family physician. Now all that is changed. I lately took the liberty of offering to bet a Company that I would not live for ever, in spite of my present rude health. In reply I was invited "to meet our medical advisers at our office." I arrived obediently at the appointed time and was ushered into a room in which sat behind a table two elderly gentlemen of ultra-military appearance. When, later, they addressed each other as "Colonel" and "Major" I knew that they were civilian dug-outs militarised by the War. Colonel drew himself up and spoke to me in a C.O. voice: "Well, what is the general state of your health?" I felt that it was up to me to play the old war-game, even if it ruined my chance of getting insured. I therefore started to enumerate the various minor ailments from which I suffered. "To begin with," I explained, "I've sprained my wrist rather badly and—" "That won't prevent your holding a rifle," interrupted Colonel severely. "Then," I continued, "sometimes I have a headache." "Ah," said Major, "and I suppose when you run uphill your heart palpitates like a pea in a drum?" "Yes," I replied quickly, "it does do that. How did you know?" Major laughed a laugh such as Hindenburg himself might have delivered. It was cold and mirthless and must have hurt his face. "Come," said Colonel sharply, "let's have no more of this humbug. Drink and smoke less and keep yourself fit; and don't come whining before us, complaining of this and that. A few route marches will soon set you up." "But, seriously," I objected, "my health is not of the best and I feel I ought to warn you that there are slight disabilities in my constitution which——" "Which make you," interjected Major, "of course unfit to do your duty." His voice was like steel wire and I hated him. "Very well, then," I answered calmly, "I will say no more." "You'd better not," roared Colonel. "It's no use your thinking you can impose on us. I've marked you down A1. I'm sick to death of you fellows who try to get behind a doctor directly your comfort is threatened. That disposes of your case. About—turn!" Mechanically I left their presence.... I don't know what the Insurance Company will make of it when they find all their candidates passed as first-class lives. Somebody ought to tell these doctors that the War is over. ANOTHER POST-OFFICE HOLD-UP.Our post-office is to be found taking cover in one corner of the village's general shop. Poetically it may be described as between the lard and the lingerie. In prose the most interesting thing to be said of it is that I was there this morning. It was while I was buying a box of matches that the thought came to me that I might as well enjoy myself thoroughly and have some stamps as well. There was quite a crowd in the shop at the time, and we both moved to the postal counter together. She, however, got in the first word. "One stamp, please," she demanded, and went on, "You'll never guess what I want it for." "Isn't it for a letter, then?" asked the post-mistress, as if, for instance, stamps might be used for holding down the butter while the bread is rubbed against it. "Yes, but who to? That's the point. Our George!" To me there did not seem much in this to cause a sensation, but it did. Question and answer flew backwards and forwards as thick as reminiscences at a regimental dinner. "Not young George?" "Yes, old George. We had a letter from him last week. First we'd heard for six years." "Lordy, lordy," said the post-mistress, "it only seems yesterday that he went away. I remember——" and she proved it by doing so for ten minutes with a volubility that would have made the fortune of a patter comedian. At the first sign of a pause I found the courage to ask for my stamps, but quite in vain. The conversation was only getting its second wind. "Young George, to be sure! And how is he? Tell me all about him." I gathered that George was in the best of health and in America, was unmarried and umpired out in a recent baseball match and wanted——" ["A dozen stamps, please." This from me.] a photograph of the old people and his brothers and sisters. From this the transition was easy to an uncle of the post-mistress's who went——" ["A dozen stamps."]—to foreign parts. He always was a rolling stone, he was. Never gathered no moss. On the other hand, there were no flies on him. Did very well for himself, he did, and when he died——" But it was at this point that the moisture from the margarine cask against which I had been leaning began to make its presence felt, and, stampless, I left the shop. At the edge of the village I met our policeman. "Go quickly," I implored him; "there's a hold-up at the post-office." Perhaps "quickly" is not quite the right word, but, at any rate, he went. I doubt if he will get promotion over the job, but I am sure he too will like to hear about our George, if there's anything left to say by the time he gets there. SOMETIMES.Some days are fairy days. The minute that you wake You have a magic feeling that you never could mistake; You may not see the fairies, but you know they're all about, And any single minute they might all come popping out; You want to laugh, you want to sing, you want to dance and run, Everything is different, everything is fun; The sky is full of fairy clouds, the streets are fairy ways— Anything might happen on truly fairy days. Some nights are fairy nights. Before you go to bed You hear their darling music go chiming in your head; You look into the garden and through the misty grey You see the trees all waiting in a breathless kind of way. All the stars are smiling; they know that very soon The fairies will come singing from the land behind the moon. If only you could keep awake when Nurse puts out the light . . . Anything might happen on a truly fairy night. R. F. "CRICKET.Little Snoring Ladies v. Little Snoring Lads.—Local Paper. This match was played in Norfolk and not, as you might have expected, in Beds.
A CAST. A CAST.Ghillie. "Ay, Sir, the fushers are no what they were. Ye'll maybe no believe me, but there was a man here last month that had naething but a sup o' cold tea in his flask to wet a fush when he caught yin!" THE PARADISE OF BARDS.(From an Oxford Correspondent.)Considerable resentment has been caused in various centres of poetic activity by the preference recently expressed by the Prime Minister for the products of Welsh minstrelsy. In a letter addressed to Huw Menai, the working South Wales miner poet, Mr. Lloyd George declares that he has read his poems with the "greatest delight." If the Premier had merely said "great delight" no untoward consequences would have ensued, but the invidious use of the superlative threatens to embroil the whole country in that internecine war recently predicted by the Editor of The AthenÆum in his gloomy survey of Neo-Georgian literature. Meetings of protest have been held in Hampstead, at Letchworth, Stratford-on-Avon and the Eustace Miles Restaurant, but the most remarkable and orderly of these demonstrations was that which took place at Boar's Hill on Saturday last, under the presidency of the Poet Laureate. Boar's Hill, we need not remind our readers, is par excellence the fashionable intellectual suburb of Oxford, and has been called the "Paradise of Bards." Dr. Bridges in a brief opening address, speaking more in sorrow than in anger, dealt with the statistical side of the question. He pointed out that of the residents at Boar's Hill one in every six was a true poet, and three out of every five were masters of the art of prosody. There were no miner poets on Boar's Hill. Their motto was Majora canamus. Professor Gilbert Murray, who followed, laid stress on the perfect harmony which reigned amongst the residents, in spite of the fact that all schools of poetry were represented, from the austerest of classicists to the most advanced exponents of Neo-Georgian vers libre. They were a happy family, linked together by a common devotion to the Muses, and in their daily output of verse showing a higher unit of production than that recorded of any other community in either hemisphere. Mr. John Masefield moved the only resolution, which was carried unanimously, to the effect that Mr. Fisher, the Minister of Education, should be requested to convey to the Prime Minister the regret of the meeting that he should have overlooked the paramount claim of Boar's Hill to be regarded as the Parnassus of Great Britain. In Murray's Guide to Oxfordshire it had been spoken of as "a health resort for jaded students," but that was an obsolete libel. Constitutionally vigorous and daily refreshed by draughts from the pellucid springs of the Pierides, they led a life of exuberant health, as the vital statistics of the neighbourhood would abundantly show. On Boar's Hill people began to write poetry earlier and continued to do so later than in any other spot in the British Isles. Sir Arthur Evans, in proposing a vote of thanks to the Chairman, made the gratifying announcement that Mr. Masefield was already engaged on a companion poem to his "Reynard the Fox," commemorating the genius loci under the inspiring title of "The Sticking of the Pig." A Very Free Translation.
'An' serve yer right too if it 'ad a-knocked yer. Yer du go racin' a'ead—no sense.' Martha (to ancient spouse, who has narrowly escaped being run over by passing car). "An' serve yer right too if it 'ad a-knocked yer. Yer du go racin' a'ead—no sense." OUR BOOKING OFFICE.(By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks.)Recent developments have given an unexpectedly topical interest to a new book by Professor Paul Miliukov, L.L.D., entitled Bolshevism: an International Danger (Allen and Unwin). The whole question of the de facto Government of Russia is so fiercely controversial that it is not to be expected that such a work should escape violent criticism from those for whom that Government can do no wrong, though the writer justly claims that (however obvious his own views) he has striven to be strictly fair to those of the enemy. The scheme of his work has been "to trace the evolution of Bolshevism from an abstract doctrine to a practical experiment." One may excusably find the history a grim and menacing one. In the course of it Professor Miliukov tells again the tragedy of the great betrayal (which it will do no one harm to ponder upon just now), when the Commander of the 1st corps of the Siberian Army reported: "A brilliant success crowned our efforts ... there remained before us only a few fortifications, and the battle might soon have taken the character of a complete destruction of the enemy." But the work of M. Lenin had been too thorough; instead of a victory that might have ended the War and saved thousands of lives, we saw this already triumphant army, equipped through British industry, melt into a disorganised rabble. Nor is the writer less interesting on other aspects of his theme; in particular an exposition of the notorious Third International and a survey of the present-moment activities of Bolshevist propaganda, notably in our own country. No one who wishes to read and keep for reference a clearly written and understandable survey of the most urgent problem in modern politics need go further than this short but highly concentrated study. The March to Paris and the Battle of the Marne, 1914 (Arnold), by Generaloberst Alexander Von Kluck, is more of a soldiers', indeed a staff-officers', book than any that has appeared here from the other side. It deals exclusively with the operations of the German right wing, Von Kluck's own (first) army and his liaison with the second (Von BÜlow's), during the move forward to the Grand Morin, the allied counter-offensive and the establishment of the line of the Aisne—that is from the twelfth of August to the twelfth of September. The principal army orders are given textually. An admirable map illustrates each day's routes and billets for his first line and second line troops, his cavalry and the extreme right of the second army. Von Kluck's explanation of his breach of the Supreme Command's orders and the manoeuvre which exposed him to Manoury's stroke was that, while ignoring the letter, he was acting in the spirit of those orders on the information available; that a pause to fulfil them literally would have given the enemy time to recover; that defective intelligence kept him ignorant of the fact that the German left and centre had been definitely held by the French (if he had known this he would not, he says, have crossed the Marne). An examination of the frontispiece portrait suggests that this fighting General would easily find excellent reason for disobeying other people's orders and maintain an obstinate defence of his own decisions once made, however disastrous in result. Notes by the historical section (military branch) of the Committee of Imperial Defence point out inaccuracies and contradictions which the lay reader would be unlikely to discover for himself. He will however, if I mistake not, appreciate a soldierly narrative, unspoiled by "political" parentheses or underestimation of opponents, of what was undoubtedly a great military feat. The German right wing covered the most ground and met perhaps the toughest of the fighting. I have found in Lighting-up Time (Cobden-Sanderson) that all too rare thing, a theatrical novel of which the vitality does not expire towards the end of the fourth chapter. Obviously Mr. Ivor Brown knows the life of modern stageland, one would say, with the intimacy of personal experience. More important still, he commands an easy style and a flow of genial, not too esoteric, humour that combine to keep the reader chuckling and curious to the last page. His title is characteristic, Lighting-up Time symbolising here that period in the career of an actress when her possibly waning attractions need the illumination of a judicious boom. The two main characters are Mary Maroon, the leading lady, and Peter Penruddock, the astute publicity agent who engages to set her upon her financial and artistic pedestal. Peter, in other words, is Mary's tide, taken at the flood in chapter one, and leading her, very divertingly, on to fortune. Both the tour of Stolen or Strayed and the company that present it are admirably true to life, while Mr. Brown has even been able convincingly to suggest the atmosphere of theatrical Oxford, when in due course his mummers descend upon that home of lost comedies and impossible revues. If I have a complaint against the book it is that a tale of such pleasant irony hardly needed the general pairing-off with which the author rings down his curtain; but for this Noah's Ark I should have more easily believed in a story that entertained me throughout. There are some forty-odd bits in A Bit at a Time (Mills and Boon), and they embrace a variety of subjects, ranging from crocuses in Kensington Gardens to corpse-boats on the Tigris. They are all, whether sentimental, satirical or pathetic, fiction of the lightest type. Such literature was eminently readable during the War—most of Mr. Dion Clayton Calthrop's bits have to do with somebody's "bit"—when a touch of conventional pathos and pretended cynicism and a generous padding of humour, real or forced, provided sufficient relaxation from the strain of anxious hours. But the wisdom of republishing them in book form in these sober days of peace is open to question. When Mr. Calthrop talks satirically of "perfect officials" or of an earnest young American aviator who writes letters home in a United States dialect that was never heard on land or sea outside Bayswater, or of the war-time adventures of one Mr. Mason, skipper, and Mr. Smith, his mate, he is tolerably amusing. When he becomes serious, as in "The Prayer of the Classical Parson" and "When the Son Came Home," his limitations become increasingly apparent. Yet it is in this vein that he gives us what is by all odds his best bit, "The Chevalier of Carnaby Row." When he writes of Cupids and fauns and Columbines and rose-leaves and the sort of young females that find this environment congenial (in books) I like Mr. Calthrop least. Perhaps it is because the publishers have put his picture on the paper cover. He looks much too stalwart and sophisticated to be toying with such gossamer fantasies. LIFE'S LITTLE ANOMALIES. LIFE'S LITTLE ANOMALIES.How many thousands of pounds have been offered to Carpenter and Dempsey to fight, and now here is a kind old lady giving two boys sixpence each if they'll promise not to. I doubt whether the complications which attend the devolution of dead men's property were created for the confusion of survivors or for the convenience of novelists. In the case of The Lost Mr. Linthwaite (Hodder and Stoughton), Mrs. Byfield had married Mr. Byfield, or at least she thought she had, and Mr. Byfield had died, supposedly intestate. Previously Mrs. Byfield had married Mr. Melsome, or again she thought she had, and Mr. Melsome had disappeared and was assumed to be dead, leaving nothing behind him except a brother as vile as himself. The following discoveries were made by her in due sequence: That Mr. Melsome was not dead and that therefore she was not Mrs. Byfield but Mrs. Melsome; that Mr. Melsome was already married when he purported to marry her, and that therefore she was not Mrs. Melsome but Mrs. Byfield; and that a solicitor's clerk was absconding with the bulk of the Byfield estate, which, of course, was what the bother was all about. Her son, bitten with the craze for discoveries, then discovered on his own that the late Mr. Byfield hadn't died intestate. I wonder myself if he ever really died at all.... These are what Mr. J. S. Fletcher very aptly calls the mere legalities; the plot, which thickens and thickens from first page to last, concerns the handling of them by the evil but talented Melsome brothers, the accidental intervention of Mr. Linthwaite, and the rescue work of his admirable nephew, Mr. Richard Brixey, of The Morning Sentinel. Mr. Fletcher tells his story well, but up to the very last moment I was looking and hoping for a surprise and was suspecting those legalities of being a deception invented to make the surprise all the greater. A first-class adventure, in my opinion spoilt by the sacrifice of originality to technicality.
Very natural.
With a name like that the copper could hardly miss him.
Sir Robert seems easily pleased.
But we fear that some of the stuff met with nowadays would "beat the band."
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