FIRST ASS. "AND I HAVE IT ON THE BEST AUTHORITY."

SECOND ASS. "INCREDIBLE!" [_Goes off and repeats it._]]

* * * * *

Certainly Hans the Hun does not seem to be enjoying the same high spirits
he did of yore. Possibly he is beginning to regret the day he left the old
beer garden, his ample Gretchen, and the fatty foods his figure demands.
The story of Patrick and Goldilocks would tend to prove as much.

The other day Patrick was engaged in one of those little "gains" which
straighten out the unsightly kinks in the "line" and give the
War-correspondents a chance to get their names in print.

Patrick and his friends attacked in a snowstorm, dropped into a German
post, gave the occupants every assistance in evacuating, and prepared to
make themselves at home. While they were clearing up the mess, they found
they had taken a prisoner, a blond Bavarian hero who had found it
impossible to leave with his friends on account of half-a-ton of sandbags
on his chest. They excavated him, told him if he was a good boy they'd give
him a ticket to Donington Hall at nightfall, christened him Goldilocks for
the time being, and threw him some rations, among which was a tin of
butter.

He listened to all they had to say in a dazed sulky fashion, but at the
sight of the tin of butter he gurgled drunkenly and seemed to go
light-headed. He spent a perfect day revelling in the joys of
anticipation, crooning over that butter, cuddling it, hiding it in one
pocket after the other. Towards dusk down came the snow again, and under