phrase for a small boy to have on his tongue.

It was all very galling for one who has fought and, I may say, bled for his
country. I almost decided to go back and fight if necessary. Then I heard a
stage-whisper from Christopher:

"Let's creep upstairs after him and tickle him to death. Shall we, Dad?"

Sheer hooliganism. It was impossible to fight with honour against such
opponents. I disdained to try. I went hastily up the remaining stairs and
locked myself in my room.

* * * * *

[Illustration: _Polite Straphanger (to lady who has been standing on his
toes for a considerable time)._ "PARDON ME, MADAM, BUT YOU'LL HAVE TO GET
OFF HERE--THIS IS AS FAR AS I GO."]

* * * * *

THE INTERNATIONALIST.

"What on earth," I said to the waiter, who was standing a few yards off,
lost in a pensive dream of his native land--Switzerland, France, Italy?--
well, anyhow, lost in a pensive dream--"what on earth is a Petrograd
steak?"

The white napkin whisked like the scut of a rabbit, and he bounded to my
side. "Eet is mince-up," he said melodramatically. "Ze Petrograd steak ver
good. Two minute--mince-up."