James rose languidly. "That means na-poo, then, Sir," he said.
"Na-poo?" echoed the Gazette.
"Where's your learning, Sir?" asked James. "That's French for 'no more.'"
"I hope your dressing will not be painful," ventured the other.
"How would you like to have a probe rammed through your hand twice a day?" demanded James with a smile. "But it's all part of the game. Comforts for Tommy. Everyone has their own way of making us happy, not forgetting the dear lady what sent us three hundred little lavender bags, with pretty little bows on them, all sewn by herself, to keep our linen sweetly perfumed. It's nice to think that they all mean well, and I always follow the advice of the auctioneer what was trying to pass off a plated teapot as solid silver."
"What did he say?"
"Look at the bright side," answered James over his shoulder as he hurried away. "O reevwaw, Sir."
"On the night of February 29th ten thousand women marched through Unter Den London crying 'bread' and 'peace.'"
Daily Gleaner (Kingston, Jamaica.)
We missed them in the Tube.