THE MUD-LARKS. Our mess was situated on the crest of a ridge, and enjoyed an uninterrupted view of rolling leagues of mud; it had the appearance of a packing-case floating on an ocean of ooze. We and our servants, and our rats and our cockroaches, and our other bosom-companions slept in tents pitched round and about the mess. The whole camp was connected with the outer world by a pathway of ammunition... more...

SWORD AND PEN; Or, The Rival Commanders. (Extract from a Military Story of the near Future.) Captain Pipeclay was perplexed when his Company refused to obey him. He was considered a fairly good soldier, but not up to date. He might know his drill, he might have read his Queen's Regulations, but he had vague ideas of the power of the Press. "You see, Sir," remonstrated his Colour-Sergeant;... more...

SALUBRITIES ABROAD. Royat Improved.—I have said Royat ought to be rebuilt. The Grand Hotel is of a sort of Doll's House order of architecture, splendid front, no depth to speak of, and built on so steep an ascent that it is hoisted up at the back like a lady's skirt by a dress-improver. Beau site all the same, and magnificent view. Last year the Hotel Continental formed part of a group of... more...

HOW MR. CHOKEPEAR KEEPS A MERRY CHRISTMAS. Mr. CHOKEPEAR is, to the finger-nails, a respectable man. The tax-gatherer was never known to call at his door a second time for the same rate; he takes the sacrament two or three times a year, and has in his cellar the oldest port in the parish. He has more than once subscribed to the fund for the conversion of the Jews; and, as a proof of his devotion to the... more...

MYSELF, PUNCH, AND THE KEELEYS. I dined with my old friend and schoolfellow, Jack Withers, one day last September. On the previous morning, on my way to the India House, I had run up against a stout individual on Cornhill, and on looking in his face as I stopped for a moment to apologise, an abrupt “This is surely Jack Withers,” burst from my lips, followed by—“God bless me! Will Bayfield!”... more...

THE WIFE-CATCHERS. A LEGEND OF MY UNCLE’S BOOTS. In Four Chapters. “His name ’tis proper you should hear, ’Twas Timothy Thady Mulligin: And whenever he finish’d his tumbler of punch, He always wished it full agin.” “You can have no idea, Jack, how deeply the loss of those venerated family retainers affected me.” My uncle paused. I perceived that his eyes were full, and his tumbler... more...

GOING TO THE BANK. She thought she had got a bargain. It was only marked "20/-," and would have been double the price at any of the West-end places. So she whipped out her Japanese note-case, paid for it, and carried it off like a whirlwind lest the shopman should find he had made a mistake. But it was she who had made a mistake, and she broke the news to me at breakfast on the following... more...

THE "MODEL HUSBAND" CONTEST. SCENE THE FIRST—At the GALAHAD-GREENS'. Mrs. G.-G. GALAHAD! Mr. G.-G. (meekly). My love? Mrs. G.-G. I see that the proprietors of All Sorts are going to follow the American example, and offer a prize of £20 to the wife who makes out the best case for her husband as a Model. It's just as well, perhaps, that you should know that I've made up my mind... more...

HOW TO CURE THE BOSCH. "Yes, I seen a good bit o' the Bosch, one way and another, before he got me in the leg," said Corporal Digweed. "Eighteen months I had with 'im spiteful, and four months with 'im tame. Meaning by that four months guarding German prisoners." "And what do you think of him at the end of it?" I asked. Digweed leant back with a heavily judicial... more...

HEREINAFTERS. I. There are people in the world called tenants. I think nothing of them; Celia thinks nothing of them; jointly we do not think anything of them. However, as this is not so much a grammar as an explanation, I will get on with it. For the last two years we have been letting our flat. Naturally Celia has had to do most of the work; my military duties have prevented me from taking my share... more...