at the door of the dug-out. (Aeroplanes passing overhead have had
narrow escapes from being dragged into the dug-out by sheer power of
suction, when David deep-breathes.) Then he does muscle exercises. He
crooks his finger and from behind you see a muscle like a mushroom
get up suddenly in the small of his back, run up his spine and hit
him under the left ear.

Meanwhile he is whistling, and his batman is making sparks fly out
of the buttons, which he cleans with glass-paper and gun-cotton just
outside the door.

At eight, when I get carefully out of bed, David is beginning to don
his shirt. At nine we move together towards breakfast.

I am training David to say "Rah! Rah!" against the day when he and
General ROOSEVELT meet in a communication trench. I am sure they will
take to each other at once.

* * * * *

[Illustration: _Basil_. "MOTHER, I THINK SATAN MUST BE ABOUT."

_Mother_. "WHY, DEAR?"

_Basil_. "ISN'T IT SATAN THAT MAKES VERY GOOD PEOPLE FEEL BAD?"

_Mother_. "YES, DEAR."

_Basil_. "WELL, I FEEL AS IF I DIDN'T WANT TO GO AND WASH MY FACE."]