FINE WORK
The war bulletins, which used to announce the taking of provinces and army corps, announce now the taking of single trenches, or single farm-houses—they announce, like a football game, gains of a few yards.
It’s fine work, very fine work. It reminds one of the jockey who was a trifle overweight—only a trifle, mind; but this trifle was enough to disqualify him.
“James,” said his owner after the scales had told their tale, “is there nothing more you can do?”
“No, sir; nothin’.”
“Are you shaved and hair-cut?”
“Half an hour ago.”
“Nails?”
The jockey showed his nails. They were trimmed to the quick.
“You’d better get your tonsils cut, James.”
But this, too, had been done.
“Well, then, James,” said the owner, “there’s nothing for it but to have your appendix taken out. Hurry off to the hospital now, or you’ll be too late.”