We
waited, we watched, we listened; but there came no reply (possibly because
there was no one left to make one), and my Captain turned to me, shoulders
shrugged, palms outspread, a grimace of apologetic disgust on his mobile
face--like a circus-master explaining that his clown has got the measles:
"Nottin, see you? _Pas d'esprit, l'animal!_"
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE RUMOURISTS.
FIRST ASS. "AND I HAVE IT ON THE BEST AUTHORITY."
SECOND ASS. "INCREDIBLE!" [_Goes off and repeats it._]]
* * * * *
Certainly Hans the Hun does not seem to be enjoying the same high spirits
he did of yore. Possibly he is beginning to regret the day he left the old
beer garden, his ample Gretchen, and the fatty foods his figure demands.
The story of Patrick and Goldilocks would tend to prove as much.
The other day Patrick was engaged in one of those little "gains" which
straighten out the unsightly kinks in the "line" and give the
War-correspondents a chance to get their names in print.
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