PATRIOTIC AIMS.
Peter's birthday is soon after Xmas, too soon after for Peter's taste—and mine.
"I want one or two good War Games," I said to the attendant at the toymonger's. "What have you got?"
"Several, Sir," she said. "Here is one, 'The North Sea Battle.' Made in London."
She opened a box containing realistic wooden models, in silhouette, of two battleships, two cruisers and two destroyers correctly coloured; a grey and grim-looking breech-loading gun with wooden projectiles, a gun embrasure and a small rule labelled "one mile."
Every ship carried the White Ensign and my heart warmed to them at sight.
"Tell me the worst at once," I said, pulling out some loose silver.
"Two-and-eleven," she said.
"Sold in two places," I said; "I mean I'll have two of them without reading the rules."
"Here," she said, fingering another box, "is the 'Siege of Berlin.'"
"Intelligent anticipation," I said, "at any rate."
"Quite so," she said, "Made in London, too, by the same people."
I liked the idea of besieging Berlin, and when the open box disclosed a Rathhaus, churches, houses and other buildings, and a breech-loading gun similar to the one last before mentioned, to demolish the buildings with, I forked out another five-and-tenpence, and became the possessor of two "Sieges of Berlin."
I despatched one "Siege" and one North Sea Battle to some Belgian refugee children I know, and took the others home to Peter.
*****
We tried the sea-fight first, Peter electing to play the part of Sir John Jellicoe. I took the gun behind the embrasure and tried to prevent the ships from reaching my cardboard fastness by knocking them over en route. I found that, every time I missed, the whole Fleet was entitled to advance one mile—in reality about six inches—nearer my fort. The ships were provided with rockers and came up smiling if not squarely hit.
Long before my allowance of shot was expended, the British Fleet was upon me, and I metaphorically hoisted the white flag.
"Come," I said, as Peter set up the Rathhaus and other buildings of Berlin, "my heart is in this. How do we play?"
"Three shots each," said Peter, "and you score what's marked on the back of each building you knock down. I'll go first."
Peter's first shot was a miss. With his second he brought down a house which fell against a fort, knocking it over too. His third shot sailed harmlessly over the town and landed in the fender.
"How many?" I said.
"Twenty," said Peter. "Not bad."
"Keep your eye on father," I said, training the gun on the Rathhaus. I managed to conceal my surprise when the building fell at the first attempt.
"I shall knock you endways," I said.
The second shot hit the fallen Rathhaus, so I shifted the muzzle of the gun a little to the left. The buildings seemed well bunched together at this point.
It was a magnificent shot; the projectile skimmed past the church steeple as well-regulated shells should do, without damaging it, and swept away two buildings immediately behind it.
"That's some shooting," I said. "How many am I?"
"Nothing," said Peter.
"Look here, young man," I said, "explain yourself. First the Rathhaus."
"That's five," said Peter, "because it's so big and easy to hit."
I hadn't thought of that.
"Then there's this house—ten," said Peter.
"Come, we're getting on," I said. "That's fifteen; and now—this bigger house."
"Minus fifteen," said Peter. "That's the Red Cross Hospital. Oh, Daddy, you Hun!"
 | An image should appear at this position in the text. To use the entire page scan as a placeholder, edit this page and replace "{{missing image}}" with "{{raw image|Punch Vol 148.djvu/75}}". Otherwise, if you are able to provide the image then please do so. For guidance, see Wikisource:Image guidelines and Help:Adding images. |  |
DISILLUSIONED.
"I know you'll hate talking about it, but do tell me how you got your wound."
"Chopping wood for the old girl at my billet, miss!"
