P.S.—Of course I thoroughly approve of the idea that we must all make sacrifices in time of war; but, as I tell my household, these sacrifices should be personal and not vicarious.
OUR GUY.
We feel just a little hurt that the police have not prohibited our village bonfire. Why shouldn't Zeppelins come to Little Pilswick? Why should an arrogant metropolis monopolise everything? Still we hid our mortification and the Guy Committee met as usual in the saloon bar of the "Bull".
In the first instance Prodgers moved that the celebration be dropped, and that all material already collected be given to the Belgian refugees. It was pointed out to him that a gift of two empty tar-barrels and half-a-dozen furze bushes, though meant in all kindness, might prove embarrassing to any relief committee. Besides, we are happy in the entertainment of two Belgian families, and the feeling was that the sight of an uncultured fire would cheer them. So Prodgers was temporarily crushed. Then came the all-important question of the guy.
Mr. Flodden, the landlord, began the discussion. "Last year we'd Lloyd George, but we can't have no politics now, though he's—well, I wish I could tell him what he is. Year before we'd the Squire for stopping up that footpath, but he's in the Yeomanry now, so he's barred."
"The Kaiser!" cried Jenkins. "Have him with mailed fists holding up a torn scrap of paper."
"No, the Crown Prince," suggested Webb. "Everyone would know him if we put a silver spoon in each hand and hung a silver coffee-pot round his neck."
"De Wet," proposed Cobb.