Young Bruno Mussolini, as all good little readers of the news dispatches know by now, is in Spain to "live dangerously" after the tradition of his parent, whereunder the highest glory that can come to man is to commit murder--preferably the murder of women and children.

There is one thing we trust Papa Musso made quite plain to the cub before he went--that "living dangerously" in Spain may not be so completely without penalty as it was in Ethiopia. There it was all a fine business of sailing leisurely through the clouds and gleefully popping out of existence poor niggers on the ground below. But the Spanish government already has some hundreds of planes and pilots--first-class instruments of flaming death in both cases: and tomorrow it may have many thousands more. And every one of those pilots, you may be sure, will have sworn an oath to bring low the crest of Bruno Mussolini. Maybe, as Papa Musso has it, destiny really does ride with the breed. Maybe the young man is only a tourist. But if he stays in Spain, and if he is not Destiny's unexampled darling, Bruno Mussolini is likely to go home, if ever he goes home, as worm's meat.

We hope Papa Musso told him. For Bruno is only twenty, and so would not know about these things for himself. Twenty never knows--never believes in sudden death for itself save on the most pressing representations of its elders. And it would be hardly fair to send Bruno out to meet it under the impression that he was only going out for a little pleasant sport shooting of women and children on the ground.