Business done.—Coolness sprung up between Tomlinson and Major Rasch. Budget Bill read second time.
Friday.—"Pity the sorrows of the poor postman, whose wandering steps has brought him to your door." Thus Kearley, in a long speech, from which it appeared that if there is a down-trodden fellow-creature whose state looks hopeless, it is the postman. The story of the man in Wales who trudged seventy miles a day, including the diurnal ascent of a mountain 7,000 feet high, sent thrill of horror through House. Kearley subsequently explained he meant 700 feet high. But that a detail. Seven seems to be this man's fateful number, for his pay is seven shillings a week—a shilling a day, including the mountain.
Arnold Morley, on other hand, showed that the lot of the postman is truly idyllic. Handsomely paid when on duty; booted and uninformed; is accustomed to retire in the prime of life on pension amounting to two-thirds of his salary.
"Why," said Willie Redmond, thinking regretfully of days that are no more, when Joseph Gillis carried the bag, "as things go now, it's better to be a postman than an Irish Member." Finally decided to appoint Committee to inquire into truth of these conflicting statements.
Business done.—Didn't get into Committee on Civil Service Estimates.
New Version of an Old Proverb. (For the Use of Local Optionists.)—One Vetoist may keep a toper from his favourite pub; but fifty cannot make him drink—water.
"The Immortal Williams" on the Anti-British Movement In Egypt.—"Oh, my prophetic soul, Deloncle!"—Shakspeare, adapted from the French.