Not at all a nice
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.
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