dining-room carpet by its foot-prints. Glancing up for a moment, he caught sight of the other members of the family.     

       "England, my England!" he moaned.     

       It was indeed a sight to extract tears of blood from any Boy Scout. The table had been moved back against the wall, and in the cleared space Mr. Chugwater, whose duty it was to have set an example to his children, was playing diabolo. Beside him, engrossed in cup-and-ball, was his wife. Reggie Chugwater, the eldest son, the heir, the hope of the house, was reading the cricket news in an early edition of the evening paper. Horace, his brother, was playing pop-in-taw with his sister Grace and Grace's fiance, Ralph Peabody. Alice, the other Miss Chugwater, was mending a Badminton racquet.     

       Not a single member of that family was practising with the rifle, or drilling, or learning to make bandages.     

       Clarence groaned.     

       "If you can't play without snorting like that, my boy," said Mr. Chugwater, a little irritably, "you must find some other game. You made me jump just as I was going to beat my record."     

       "Talking of records," said Reggie, "Fry's on his way to his eighth successive century. If he goes on like this, Lancashire will win the championship."     

       "I thought he was playing for Somerset," said Horace.     

       "That was a fortnight ago. You ought to keep up to date in an important subject like cricket."     

       Once more Clarence snorted bitterly.     

       "I'm sure you ought not to be down on the floor, Clarence," said Mr. Chugwater anxiously. "It is so draughty, and you have evidently got a nasty cold. Must you lie on the floor?"     

       "I am spooring," said Clarence with simple dignity.     

       "But I'm sure you can spoor better sitting on a chair with a nice book."     

       "I think the kid's sickening for something," put in Horace critically. "He's deuced roopy. What's up, Clarry?"     

       "I was thinking," 

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