III.--Are we going to the Dogs?

_By Vice-Admiral (Retd.) Sir Boniface Bludger, K.C.B_.

I was standing the other day at the window of the only Club in London
where they understand (or used to understand) what devilled kidneys
really are, musing in post-prandial gloom on the vanished glories of
this England of ours. "_Ichabod!_" I cried aloud to the unheeding stream
of Piccadilly wayfarers; and echo answered, "_Bod_."

What is wrong with us? Or what is wrong with me? Are we actually going
to the dogs, or is it merely that the Club kidneys are going to the
devil? Jeremiah or _Mrs. Gummidge_--which am I? Let the facts
attest and let posterity decide; thank Heaven I shall not be there to
hear the verdict.

After our half-baked victory over the Hun the popular watchword was
"Reconstruction." We have now enjoyed a year and more of this
"building-up" process, and the net result is that houses for those that
lack them are as scarce as iced soda-fountains in the Sahara.

In this work of restoration, we were told, our women voters and
legislators would play a leading part. What part are they in truth
playing? Their main object apparently is still further to embitter the
Drink question, although if they would only put a little more bitter
into our national beverage they might help to lubricate matters. Is it
not a significant fact that the slackness evidenced in every phase of
industry manifests itself at a time when it becomes more and more
difficult to get a decent drink? In this respect our progress is not so
much to the dogs as to the cats, who sneak along on the padded paws of