swift MacEels, the big bag of kits, falconplumes and jackboots incloted, is where in the tales of me perished and I beggered about the Balt with the sudden spluttered petulance of some anomo- rous letter, signed Toga Girilis, (tetisy dear). We have wounded our way from Maizenhead to Youghal. And that’s how I’ll try my set on edges grapeling an aigrydoucks, grilled over birchenrods, with a moderate expression of the Coldstream. Guards were walking, in (^ardorme^leuT, je