IN EXTREMIS.
A Nut lay dying. He was twenty-five. He had had a good time—too good—and the end was near.
There was no hope, but alleviation was possible. "Is there anything," he was asked, "that you would like?"
He was plucky and prepared for the worst.
"Yes," he said, "I'd like to know what I've spent since I was twenty. Could that be arranged?"
"Easily," they said.
"Good," he replied. "Then tell me what I've spent on my bally old stomach—on food."
"On food," they replied. "We find that you have spent on yourself an average of a pound a day for food. For five years that is, roughly, £1825."
"Roughly?" said the Nut.
"Yes. Counting one leap year, it would be £1826. But then you have entertained with some freedom, bringing the total to £3075."
"Yes," said the Nut. "And what about drinks?"
"We find," was the reply, "that on drinks your average has been eighteen shillings a day, or £1643 8s. 0d. in all."
"Good heavens!" said the Nut. "What a noble thirst! And clothes?"
"The item of clothes comes to £940," they said.
"Only three figures!" said the Nut. "How did I come to save that odd £60, I wonder?"
"Not by any idea of economy," they replied. "Merely a want of time."
"And let's see," said the Nut, "what else does one spend money on? Oh, yes, taxis. How much for taxis?"
"Your taxis," they said, "work out at seven shillings a day, or £639 2s. 0d."
"And tips?" the Nut inquired.
"Tips," they said, "come to £456."
The Nut lay back exhausted and oxygen was administered. He was very near the end.
"One thing more," he managed to ask. "What have I paid in cloak-room fees for my hat and stick?"
"Only £150," they said.
But it was enough: he fell back dead.
"An extremely able statement of the case for Federation is made up in a little book by Mr. Murray Macdonald and Lord Charnwood, which is just published (T. Fisher Unwin, 22s. 6d.)"—Daily News.
Look out for a really big book by the same authors, at £22.
We have long waited for a good definition of "tact," and here it is in The Transvaal Leader:—
"The police handled the large crowds who assembled at the station with considerable tact. One obstreperous fellow who appeared to be the worse for liquor got the butt-end of a rifle in his jaw after grossly insulting a constable, and he was then chased off by the crowd, who appeared to appreciate the tact of the police."
A chance for Mr. Lloyd George:—The Deforestation of Bootle.
Instructor. "Now then, none of that hupside down flying 'ere; you ain't in the haviation corps."