VICTORIA.
He entered the train at St. James' Park—a dark-eyed young Belgian wearing the new khaki uniform of King Albert's heroic Army. I had watched him hobbling along the platform, and my own boots and puttees being coated with mud after a day's trench-digging in Surrey I drew them in as he took the corner seat opposite mine, stretching out rather stiffly before him the leg which had no doubt stopped a Bosch's bullet. Here was the opportunity for an interesting exchange of views. I was mentally rehearsing a few bright opening sentences in French when the train again stopped. Half twisting in his seat he peered uncertainly out of window.
"Victoria," I informed him; but he obviously didn't understand. I raised my voice.
"Victoria Station," I told him again. "Er—er, Victoire."
His stick fell clattering to the floor, his mouth broadened into a fraternal smile and, seizing both my hands, he worked them like pump-handles.
"Ah, bon, bon! À la victoire! Vivent les Alliés!"
"Brazil.—The British Consul at Porto Alegre states that there appears to be a prospect of the work of repaying the town being carried out in the near future. The contract provides for the repaving of an area of 500,000 square miles at a total cost of £223,200." Morning Paper.
If these figures are correct Porto Alegre must have the record for cheap paving, always excepting an even warmer place where good intentions are the material employed.
Sergeant-Major (lecturing the young officers of a new battalion of an old regiment). "You 'aven't got to make traditions; you've only got to keep 'em. You was the Blankshire Regiment in 1810. You are the Blankshire Regiment in 1916. Never more clearly 'as 'istory repeated itself.".