I had hardly got back to my letter when we started off again.

"Well, that's my morning's work done--no, it isn't--yes, no, by Jove,
there's a code word for No. 237 Filtration Unit to be thought out. No,
I shan't, they really _can't_ want one, they're too far back--still
they _might_ come up to filter something near enough to want one--no
I _won't_, it's sheer waste--still, I suppose one ought to be
prepared--oh, yes, give them one--give them the word 'strafe';
nobody's got that. Bong! That's all for to-day."

And now you know what part I play in the Great War, Dickie.

Yours, JACK.

P.S.--Just off for my morning's exercise--sharpening the Corps
Commander's pencils.

* * * * *

A "PUNCH" COT.

Some time ago Mr. Punch made an appeal on behalf of the East London
Hospital for Children at Shadwell. He has now received a letter from
the Chairman, which says: "By a unanimous resolution the Board of
Management have desired me to send you an expression of their most
grateful thanks for your help, which, it is no exaggeration to say,
has saved the Hospital from disaster." He adds that the Board "would
like to give a more practical proof of their gratitude," and proposes,
as "an abiding memorial," to set aside a Cot in the Hospital, to be
called "The Punch Cot."