F.S.
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE NEW POOR.
"GOOD MORNING, MADAM. I DEAL IN CAST-OFF CLOTHING."
"OH, HOW LUCKY! DO YOU THINK YOU HAVE ANYTHING THAT WOULD SUIT MY
HUSBAND?"]
* * * * *
THE SMUGGLER.
(_With the British Army in France._)
"If I am to be a bold bad smuggler, old scream," said Percival, packing
pyjamas and parcels into his bag, "I demand the proper costume and
accessories of the craft. No self-respecting smuggler can be expected to
run a cargo in a British warm and field-boots."
"Of course, my swaggering buccaneer, if you want to do it in the grand
manner," answered Frederick, "I'll arrange for the saucy little cutter, the
sequestered cove an' the hard-riding exciseman with a cocked hat and
cutlass. But the simpler if less picturesque way is to dump your bag on the
counter at the Customs House and be taken with a fit of sneezing when the
Grand Inquisitor asks you if you have anything to declare."
"Whereupon he'll hand me a quinine tablet and, when I show signs of
convalescence, repeat the question in a loud voice.
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