THE FORTUNE OF WAR

(A fragment of a Military Romance, to be published a few years hence)

["The long-proposed introduction of motor-cars into the army for transport purposes is on the point of accomplishment."—The Outlook.]

... "Comrades!" cried the proud general, addressing his troops (standing around him in the circular square ordered by the latest drill book), "at last we are about to reap the reward of our exertions. Thanks to our trusty motor-cars, we have traversed the desert at an average speed of twenty-five miles an hour. Our casualties have been few and insignificant. A dozen or so of the engines blew up, but not more than fifty men perished by these accidents. We have, indeed, to mourn the loss of some of the 75th Dragoons, whose motor-car went wrong in its steering, and rushed at express speed into the middle of a lake. And not a few of our heroes have been arrested by the native police on the charge of furious driving, with the result that they now languish in dungeons, awaiting bail. But what are these trifles, compared with the glory that will soon be ours? The enemy are now within thirty miles of us—a distance which, with a little extra pressure, we can cover in an hour. So, forward! Mount motor-cars! Tie down the safety-valves! Seize starting levers! Now, when I give the word! Are you read——"

At this moment a grey-haired officer interrupted him.

"Alas, sir!" he cried, "we cannot advance! It is impossible!"

"Impossible?" echoed the general, in amazement. "Why?"

"For the very good reason that—we've run out of oil!"

A loud groan burst from the army on hearing the dreadful news; the voice of the general himself shook as he replied:

"Then, for once, we must ride."

"You forget, sir," said the other, "that nowadays we have no horses. Shall we—march?"

"No!" cried the intrepid leader. "March? Never! Death before dishonour! Men, your general may have to die a rather unpleasant death; but never, in this scientific age, never will he insult you by suggesting that you should walk!" and rapturous cheers from the army greeted this noble utterance. But just when hope was dying in every breast, and the only possible course seemed to be to wait patiently until the enemy attacked and destroyed them, a small motor-car with red-hot bearings whizzed through the crowd and stopped before the general. Need we mention that its driver was none other than Henry de Plantagenet? (He's my hero, of course, and he went out scouting on his own account—as heroes do—in the last chapter.)

"Sir," he cried triumphantly, "I have news, great news!"

"Well?" said the general.

"Yes, it is a well, a well of natural petroleum, in fact, which I have discovered not half-a-mile away!"

The general clasped his hand, while the army roared themselves hoarse with delight. And, an hour later, only a faint flicker of dust on the horizon showed where the expedition was scurrying towards the doomed enemy.

THE PENALTY OF FAME

Small Boy (with shrill voice).

Irritable War-Office Clerk. "Con-found the Seventh Royal Fusiliers! I'm sick of 'em! Blest if I don't pack 'em off to the Channel Islands!"

[Does so.

A Case of Tu Quoque.

She. "How do you like my new hat?"

Sutherland Highlander. "By Jove, what extraordinary headgear you women do wear!"

THAT TYRANT MAN.

Thomas the Drummer. "Well, Emmar, you needn't take on so. I loves you stright enough; but 'angin' round the barrick gates, askin' for me, is the sort of thing I will not 'ave!"

More Reforms Wanted.

Guardsman. "I just told one of those Volunteer officers that he must not come on parade with his pockets unbuttoned, and the fellow had the demmed impudence to say he was sorry he couldn't oblige me, but his corps hadn't buttons!"

Riding Master. "I thought you said you could ride?"

Candidate for the Imperial Yeomanry. "Ye-yes. But you don't get arf a chance 'ere, the corners are so bloomin' sharp!"