Page:Punch Vol 148.djvu/275

Sentry. "Who goes there?"

Special Constable. "Special Constable."

Sentry. "Advance, Special Constable."

Special Constable. "Advance yourself!"

One by one the papers are coming into line with The Daily Mirror and Daily Sketch, and adding to their regular contributors a Society Autolycus. His principal qualifications are a capacity to eat several lunches and dinners every day; to be in more than one place at once; to know by sight every musical comedy actress, and to be well supplied with honeyed epithets. Mr. Punch, hating to be behind the times and recognising the unique value of this kind of article, has arranged a similar treat for his readers.

Billee Brette's Charity.

The War Fund established by pretty little Billee Brette to send photographs of favourite actresses to the boys in the trenches is booming, so she told me when I met her yesterday in her sables, pricing rings at Fabriano's, where by the way some wonderful new jewellery is to be seen. Already she has raised five hundred pounds, and stacks of her own portrait have gone out. How I envy their lucky recipients.

The Anti-Racing Cranks.

What is all this absurd talk about racing being discontinued or even discouraged? No one who lunched at Cyrano's yesterday, as I did, would have dared to mention any such rubbish, for half the biggest bookmakers of London were there and only a Bosch would have had the heart to spoil the excellent meal which, since it was at Cyrano's, they were of course eating. But Lord Carholme's letter has sufficiently answered the foolish objectors to our grand old sport. As he says, what would become of our bloodstock if racing were interrupted for two meetings? What indeed?

A Slight to Tommy.

But there is another side to the question too. All the officers from the Front whom I talk to in this restaurant tell me that the first thing they are asked on returning to work is, "Who will win the Grand National?" Now who, I ask you, would deprive Tommy Atkins of the simple pleasure of putting this very natural question?

Ruby Lily's Dresses.

Wherever I go I hear talk of the forthcoming revue at the Petroleum and the marvellous dresses which Ruby Lily is to wear. Only this day I saw Ruby herself in her pink motor in Bond Street, and looking the picture of charm and health.

A Famous Suspect.

Talking to my tailor yesterday, I found that among his customers is the notorious Baron Keyhaull, who is just now so exercising the big-wigs. "A very particular gentleman," he called him; "always sent his coat back if it did not fit, and hated trousers that were too short or even too long for him." A suspicious circumstance is that the worthy Baron invariably had gamekeeper's pockets in his coats, no doubt for the secretion of bombs.

Dazzling Lunchers.

Lunching yesterday at the new fashionable mid-day resort, "The Let-em-all-come," as a wag has called it, I found the usual array of distinguished people. Vivacious Samie Effer, the leading lady in the new revue, had a choice party, which included her dear old mother, without whom London would now be flat indeed. At other tables I saw Teddie Central in an amazing hat, and piquante Jammy Delavie, whose début at the Fiasco is so eagerly anticipated. All were with handsome fellows in khaki.

"Below the 'black squad' kept grimy at work."—Edinburgh Evening Dispatch.