incompatible sizes, and we have a rule that saves much trouble, that all
red coats belong to G. P. W., and all other colored coats to F. R. W.,
all gifts, bequests, and accidents notwithstanding. Also we have
sailors; but, since there are no red-coated sailors, blue counts as red.

Then we have "beefeaters," (Footnote; The warders in the Tower of London
are called "beefeaters"; the origin of the term is obscure.) Indians,
Zulus, for whom there are special rules. We find we can buy lead dogs,
cats, lions, tigers, horses, camels, cattle, and elephants of a
reasonably corresponding size, and we have also several boxes of railway
porters, and some soldiers we bought in Hesse-Darmstadt that we pass off
on an unsuspecting home world as policemen. But we want civilians very
badly. We found a box of German from an exaggerated curse of militarism,
and even the grocer wears epaulettes. This might please Lord Roberts and
Mr. Leo Maxse, but it certainly does not please us. I wish, indeed, that
we could buy boxes of tradesmen: a blue butcher, a white baker with a
loaf of standard bread, a merchant or so; boxes of servants, boxes of
street traffic, smart sets, and so forth. We could do with a judge and
lawyers, or a box of vestrymen. It is true that we can buy Salvation
Army lasses and football players, but we are cold to both of these. We
have, of course, boy scouts. With such boxes of civilians we could have
much more fun than with the running, marching, swashbuckling soldiery
that pervades us. They drive us to reviews; and it is only emperors,
kings, and very silly small boys who can take an undying interest in
uniforms and reviews.

And lastly, of our railways, let me merely remark here that we have
always insisted upon one uniform gauge and everything we buy fits into
and develops our existing railway system. Nothing is more indicative of
the wambling sort of parent and a coterie of witless, worthless uncles