"'I'm a Sergeant-drummer in the Roman-Legion,' says I, trying to get
away. 'An' I'm in a hurry.'
"'Well, where's your pass?'
"'We don't wear 'em in our battalion,' I says. 'For heving's sake let me
go. There's a chap over there trying to pinch my wardrobe.'
"It was no use. They held me tight, notwithstandin' me struggles, till
the Toreador disappeared from view over the bridge.
"'That's done it. I'll go quietly,' I groans to the M.P.'s in
despair. 'That's Chris Jones's five francs gone west, and nuthen else
matters.'"...
"Well," said Chris Jones, "what then?"
"The rest you knows," said Chippo plaintively, "exceptin' that later my
clothes was mysteriously dumped at th' billet with the pockets empty.
But I think the distressing circumstances are such as warrants me in
arsking fer the loan of another five francs."
"They would be," said Chris Jones, fumbling with his wallet, "only I
happened to be the Toreador myself. But you can have the same old five
francs back, an' be 'as you were'!"
* * * * *
[Illustration: "CAN I 'AVE THE AFTERNOON OFF TO SEE A BLOKE ABAHT A JOB
FER MY MISSIS?"
"YOU'LL BE BACK IN THE MORNING, I SUPPOSE?"
"YUS--IF SHE DON'T GET IT."]
* * * * *
HOW TO PLAY GOLF WITH YOUR HEAD.
Pages:
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32