_Remarks_.--(7.30 P.M.).--Another day has passed, another day's duty
has been done. Nothing _apparently_ has happened outside the ordinary
routine of the ship. One keen-eyed young officer has succeeded another
on the bridge, with tired lines on a face grey beneath the great brown
hood of his duffle--a face so youthful, yet with the knowledge of
the command of men writ plain thereon. The propellers have swirled
faithfully and unceasingly; the good ship in consequence has cleft the
passive waves. But who knows what hideous lurking peril of mine or
torpedo we have not survived, what baleful eye has not glowered at us,
itself unseen, and retired again to its foul underworld, baulked of
its thirsted prey?

III.

OF THE EDITOR OF _THE DAILY YAP_, ON OBSERVING THAT HIS SPECIAL
CORRESPONDENT IS A RETIRED LIEUT., R.N., WHO SENDS HIM THE FOLLOWING
ACCOUNT OF A PUSH:--

Time: 6.0 A.M. Course: (approx.) E. Distance run: 1-1/2 m. Wind: S.W.
Force: 6. State of land: 5 (rough, owing to craters). Weather: R.
Therm.: 35°. Bar.: 28·89. Remarks: Objectives attained. Observation
hampered by weather.

* * * * *

BIG GAME SHOOTING.

"Angus Bowser, the popular feed merchant of Dartmouth, shot his
mouse on Thanksgiving Day. With a couple of friends he left in
auto about 1 o'clock Monday afternoon for Bowser's Station. The