Cannon Poaching

Over the clipped lawn of Britain's famed Royal Military College at Sandhurst where many a royal scion, British, Spanish, Asiatic and Balkan has learned the difficult art of the "slow march," 50 dim, sweating figures executed a strange maneuver one midnight last week. Symbols of R. M. C.'s 134 years of crack officer-breeding are eight ponderous brass cannon whose snouts once faced the British at Waterloo, now yawn harmlessly on Sandhurst's lawn. The 50 dim figures scuttled toward them like ants toward dead beetles. The raiders' leader deployed his men, half a dozen to a cannon. The 50 tugged, pushed, panted. When the maneuver was finished, two cannon stood on the rugby field, two on the shore of Sandhurst's beautiful lake, one a mile up the road and three at the bottom of the lake. Then the anonymous 50 vanished.

Soon the night watchman discovered R. M. C.'s loss. In his nightshirt the College bugler turned out 470 G. C.'s (gentlemen cadets) in their nightshirts. An officer barked out the rollcall. No cadet was missing, none showed marks of cannon-poaching. The 470 were sent back to bed. R. M. C. officers scratched their heads, reflected that Broadmoor Asylum for criminal lunatics is near Sandhurst.

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