Correspondence A LowpoN journal has received the following extraordinary letter from a Mrs. Snaggle:
Dear Sirs-I have noticed that you publish letters from a man who signs himself "Albert lon that this person may be my missing hus-Togbury-Snagglewaite I have reason to sus-
who left me sitting on Brighton beach with our five children during the last war, saying that he was going into the town to buy a Union Jack. I have not seen him since.
When I married my husband his name was Albert Snaggle, and he was often called "Togs" by his City friends because of his inveterate habit of wearing spats and a white slip inside his waistcoat, even in a pleasure-boat. He had an aunt called Mrs. Waite who, if I remember rightly, lived at Shoreham.
Should it turn out, as I suspect, that my husband assumed the false name of Togbury-Snagglewaite and is now none other than your Worthing correspondent, will you please tell him that the day he went off is still celebrated as a high day and holiday by his wife and grown-up family, who remember him with mingled feelings of disdain, contempt, derision, abhorrence, and complete indifference.—Fairthfully yours, Sea View, Putney. 'MARTHA SNaccLE, Down, the Cads!
"Do you remember the sensation at- "s Club during the last war when some officers on leave attempted to dine in the restaurant without their belts?"
—Gossr.
We do indeed, boy, reports a correspondent. As a matter of fact we had just removed our shoes preparatory to entering the sacred joint, when suddenly the door opened and Jimmy ("Buck") Faddle, who used to dress for England in '17, tottered out, "It's simply ghastly inside!" he cried. "A couple of frightful Trench-hounds on leave are trying to dine in the restaurant without their belts!"
"You don't—you can't mean without their Sam Browne belts?" gasped.
"On my solemn oath," he said.
"Oh, the slum rats!" we exclaimed indignantly. "Pray heaven they fail in the attempt!"
And then, glancing up, we caught sight of our reflection a mirror—our hair had turned snow-white with the shock!
And that, Miss Erx-Erx-Druislip, is how we came to meet your third stepmother, child. She was looking sughly "squiffy." as we used to say in those days, but every inch a well-bottled Woopington.
Text read from the printed page and cleaned; old type leaves the occasional error.