Exchange couldn't guess unless it was "I."--no harm in trying, anyhow.

"Hello!" said "I." "There is no Town Major at Rataplan," the Adjutant,
droned somewhat wearily. "Wha-t!" "I." exclaimed, suddenly interested.
"Say it again, clearer." "RAT-A-PLAN--NO--TOWN--MA-JOR," the Adjutant
repeated. There was a pause; then he heard the somebody give off an
awed "Good Lord!" and drop the receiver. Next morning in _Funny Cuts_
(the organ of Intelligence) we learned that "Corps Headquarters
was heavily shelled last night. The Town Major is missing. This is
evidence that the enemy has brought long-range guns into the opposite
sector." Followed masses of information as to the probable make of the
guns, the size of shell they preferred, the life-story of the Battery
Commander, his favourite flower and author.

The Bosch, always on the alert to snaffle the paying devices of an
opposition firm, now has his "I." staff and _Funny Cuts_ as well. From
time to time we capture a copy and read this sort of thing:--

"From agonised screeches heard by one of our intrepid airmen while
patrolling over the enemy's lines yesterday, it is evident that the
brutal and relentless British are bayonetting their prisoners."

A Highland Division, whose star pipers were holding a dirge and lament
contest on that date, are now ticking off the hours to the next
offensive.

The Antrims had a _cordon bleu_ by the name of Michael O'Callagan.
He was a sturdy rogue, having retreated all the way from Mons, and
subsequently advanced all the way back to the Yser with a huge
stock-pot on his back, from which he had furnished mysterious stews