armies it was the same story. Through carefully-preserved woods they had marched, frightening the birds and driving keepers into fits of nervous prostration. Fishing, owing to their tramping carelessly through the streams, was at a standstill. Croquet had been given up in despair.     

       Near Epping the Russians shot a fox....     

       The situation which faced Prince Otto was a delicate one. All his early training and education had implanted in him the fixed idea that, if he ever invaded England, he would do it either alone or with the sympathetic       co-operation of allies. He had never faced the problem of what he should do if there were rivals in the field. Competition is wholesome, but only within bounds. He could not very well ask the other nations to withdraw. Nor did he feel inclined to withdraw himself.     

       "It all comes of this dashed Swoop of the Vulture business," he grumbled, as he paced before his tent, ever and anon pausing to sweep the city below him with his glasses. "I should like to find the fellow who started the idea! Making me look a fool! Still, it's just as bad for the others, thank goodness! Well, Poppenheim?"     

       Captain von Poppenheim approached and saluted.     

       "Please, sir, the men say, 'May they bombard London?'"     

       "Bombard London!"     

       "Yes, sir; it's always done."     

       Prince Otto pulled thoughtfully at his moustache.     

       "Bombard London! It seems—and yet—ah, well, they have few pleasures."     

       He stood awhile in meditation. So did Captain von Poppenheim. He kicked a pebble. So did Captain von Poppenheim—only a smaller pebble. Discipline is very strict in the German army.     

       "Poppenheim."     

       "Sir?"     

       "Any signs of our—er—competitors?"     

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