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STRAIGHT POOL RULES The cue ball does not make contact with an object ball. They might make him a K.C.B., it is true; but he does not belong to the Simla Band of Hope, and stars must not be allowed to shoot madly from their sphere. There are six newspapers to read, twelve pegs to drink, four-and twenty Madras cheroots to smoke, there is kindly tiffin to linger over, forty winks afterwards, a game of billiards, the band on the Mall, dinner, and over all, incessant chatter, chatter, old scandal, old jokes, and old stories. It is a good game. It is better to dress him up in an old red coat, and strap him on to an old sword with a brass scabbard, that he may stand up on high ceremonials and drink the health of the good Queen for whom he has lived bravely through sunshine and stormy weather, in defiance of epidemics, retiring schemes, and the Army Medical Department. It is good to ask him to place his old knees under your hospitable board, and to fill him with wholesome wine, while he decants the mellow stories of an Anglo-India that is speedily dissolving from view. But nothing will ever turn up for our poor old Colonel till his poor old toes turn up to the daisies.

You might say the same thing to him every morning at the same hour till the crack of doom, and he would never recollect that he had heard your remark before. What do you say? The old Colonel is always rather suspicious of the great cocked-hats at head-quarters. I am perfectly aware that ninety-nine people out of every hundred will call me mad for attempting to hold a girl in England responsible for a lonely grave in the great desert of Australia, yet in spite of their opposition I contend that I am right. The old Colonel has no harm in him; his scandal blows upon the grandmothers of people that have passed away, and his little improprieties are such as might illustrate a sermon of the present day. I once asked Smith to keep a secret of mine, and the poor old fellow was so much afraid of losing it that in a few hours he had got everybody in the station helping him to keep it. He was often very miserable, for poor folk are not lucrative patients, and board and lodging accounts nave to be paid regularly.

In championship play, there are normally six players per team. But even in staying at the seaside there are intervals, waking moments when meals come, even if there are no appointed meal-times. His mind is not prehensile like the tail of the Apollo Bundar; everything eludes its grasp; so its pursuits are interminable. The old Colonel's cerebral caloric burns with a feeble flicker, like that of the Madras secretariats. The old Colonel is not naturally an indolent man, but the prominent fact about him is that he has nothing to do. Sometimes our old Colonel gets into the flagitious habit of writing for the newspapers. But how could they change the old Colonel? Everyone says, "Here comes poor old Smith; what an infernal bore he is!"-"Hulloa, Colonel, how are you? glad to see you! what's the news? how's exchange?" The old Colonel is not avaricious, but he saves money. Her poor were ungrateful; they could not appreciate frocks and gold bangles in other people; they wanted money and coals and a few more insignificant trifles of that kind.

She wore a neat tailor-made frock with a long boa of soft fur, and as she walked her bangles jingled musically. Once they reach the finish line, they switch positions and race back to the starting line. That morning she telegraphed Andrew to come back to her - and there was no reply. In mathematical billiards the ball bounces around according to the same rules as in ordinary billiards, but it has no mass, which means there is no friction. There was the deuce of a funny sound in the room. Let the goblets clash and the grape juice flow. I say, I think I shall give young Farnie the tip once more, and let him take it or leave it. We think that for a general about to fight an enemy, it is important to know the enemy's numbers, but still more important to know the enemy's philosophy. If Barbara Grant Hinton is above ground, I pray of her to read this story and hate me the more for it. The old gaiety was slipping from her, flashing forth at more and more infrequent intervals, like the flame of an untended lamp, brightening more feebly, ever and anon, before it dies away.

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