It sounds like the old tiger story.

* * * * *

"A certain company commander, looking out of his quarters, saw
several Germans in possession of a dump not far away. Although
still in his sleeping clothes, he seized his trench tick
and rushed towards them. Why they did not fire upon him is
one of those little mysteries which will probably never be
explained."--_Daily Paper_.

Unless by the learned author of _Minor Horrors of War_, who knows all
about the fauna of the trenches.

* * * * *

THE PERFECT CUSTOMER.

It was a very ordinary country sale of work. The Countess of Bilberry
declared it open in a neat little speech, and then bought generously
from every stall: her daughter, whose smile nobody could resist, did a
fine trade with raffle tickets for the record pumpkin produced by the
local allotments: Mrs. Dodd, the Rector's wife, presided over a pair
of scales and a strictly rationed tea, and all the rest of the village
sold vegetables and socks and pincushions, and tried to pretend that
antimacassars and shaving tidies and woolwork waistbelts were the most
desirable things in the world when they were made by wounded men at
the nearest Red Cross Hospital, in whose aid the sale was held.

But there was one unique figure amongst all the folk who knew each