"His wrists were tied together with a piece of webbing, two bricks were in his coat pockets, and, most remarkable of all, the soles of his boots were found to be nailed to his toes.... The police theory is that somebody 'owed the dead man a grudge.'"—Provincial Paper.
AUTHORSHIP FOR ALL.
[Being specimens of the work of Mr. Punch's newly-established Literary Ghost Bureau, which supplies appropriate Press contributions on any subject and over any signature.]
III.—Are we going to the Dogs?
By Vice-Admiral (Retd.) Sir Boniface Bludger, K.C.B.
I was standing the other day at the window of the only Club in London where they understand (or used to understand) what devilled kidneys really are, musing in post-prandial gloom on the vanished glories of this England of ours. "Ichabod!" I cried aloud to the unheeding stream of Piccadilly wayfarers; and echo answered, "Bod."
What is wrong with us? Or what is wrong with me? Are we actually going to the dogs, or is it merely that the Club kidneys are going to the devil? Jeremiah or Mrs. Gummidge—which am I? Let the facts attest and let posterity decide; thank Heaven I shall not be there to hear the verdict.
After our half-baked victory over the Hun the popular watchword was "Reconstruction." We have now enjoyed a year and more of this "building-up" process, and the net result is that houses for those that lack them are as scarce as iced soda-fountains in the Sahara.