Chapter IV: Part 4

_June 18._--Mr. Joseph has not called _yet_. Very strange! Suspect those horrid Composition Dolls have been setting him against me. Met him by the back-board and scolded him. He seemed confused. By a little management, I got it all out of him. I was right. He _has_ been told about the Skipjack. He has strict principles, and gave me to understand that he would prefer to decline my acquaintance--which was _like his impudence_! This is exciting, though. I intend to overcome these scruples; I mean him to be madly in love with me--then I shall scornfully reject him, which will serve him just _right_!

_July._--My tactics have succeeded--_at last_! To-day Joseph called, _ostensibly_ to beg me to go and see the unhappy Ball, who, it seems, is terribly collapsed, reduced to a _mere bowl_, and so exhausted that he cannot hold out much longer. However, in the course of the interview, I soon made him oblivious of the Ball. He fell at my feet. "Beautiful Gloriana," he cried, "with all your many and glaring faults, I love you!" Then I carried out the _rest_ of my programme--it was a painful scene, and I will only record that when he left me, he was completely _un-dolled_! I feel almost sorry for him--he had rather a nice face!

_July 4._--I don't seem able to settle to anything. After all, I think I will go and see the poor Ball. It would comfort him, and I might see _him_ there. I will order the pony-carriage.

* * * * *

_August._--What has happened to me? Where have I been all this time? Let me collect myself, and see how much I remember. My last clear recollection is of being in my carriage on my way to receive the departing Ball's last sigh.... Something has started the clockwork. My ponies are bolting, and I haven't the _slightest_ control over them! We are rushing along the smooth plain of the chest of drawers, and rapidly nearing the edge. I try to scream for help, but all I can utter is, "Papa!" and "Mamma!" All at once I see _him_ standing, calm and collected, on the very brink of the precipice. Is he strong enough to stop the ponies in their mad clockwork career, and save me, _even yet_? _How_ I will love him if he does! An instant of sickening suspense ... we are _over_!--falling down, down, down.... A crash, a whirr of clockwork, a rush of bran to my head--and I know no more. What follows is a dream--a horrible, confused nightmare--of lying among a heap of limp bodies--some armless, some legless, others (ah! the horror of it) _headless_! I grope blindly for my own limbs--they are intact; then I feel the place where I naturally expect to find my head--it is _gone_!... The shock is too much--I faint once more. And that is all.

Thank goodness, it was only a dream--for here I am, in the same old nursery again! Not _all_ a dream, either--or my pony-carriage would scarcely present such a damaged appearance. The _accident_ was real. Then what--_what_ has become of Joseph? I _must_ find him--I must make him understand that I repent--that, for the future, I intend to be a changed doll!

_September._--Still searching for Joseph. No trace of him. I seem to be a changed doll in more ways than one. My former set knows me not. The Ninepins do not stagger when I smile at them now; the Dice-box gapes open-mouthed at my greeting. I call upon the Composition Dolls--they are very polite; but it is quite clear that they don't remember me in the least! Alas! how soon one is forgotten in the world of Toys! Have no heart to recall myself to them. I go, for the first time since my accident, to a convenient brass knob, in which I would once gaze at my reflected features by the hour. How indescribable are my sensations at the discovery that I have a _totally new head_--a china one! I, who used to look down on china dolls! It is a very decent head, in its way; quite neat and inoffensive, with smooth, shiny hair, which won't come down like the golden locks I _once_ had. I am glad--yes, _glad_ now--that Joseph has gone, and the home he used to occupy is deserted, and shut up. If he were here, _he_ would not know me either. Now I can live single all my remaining days, in memory of him, and devote myself to doing good!

_October._--Have entered on my new career. Am organising a Mission for Lost Toys, and a Clothing Club for Rag Dolls. To-day, while "slumming" in the lumber-closet, found my old acquaintance, the Dutch Doll in a _shocking_ state of destitution--nothing on her but a piece of _tattered tissue-paper_! To think that my evil example and her own _senseless extravagance_ have brought her to _this_! Gave her one of my old tea-gowns and a Sunday domino, but did not reveal myself. Feeling very sad and lonely: think I shall have to keep a mouse--I must have _something_ to love me!

_October 15._--Someone has taken poor dear Joseph's old house. I see a new doll, with a small but worldly black moustache and a very bad countenance, watching me as I pass the windows. Shall call and leave a scripture brick. It may do him good.

_October 16._--Have called.... _Never_ heard worse language from the lips of _any_ doll! Came across my old admirer, the Ball, who is better, though still what I have heard the nursery governess describe as an "_oblate spheroid_." Of course, he did not recognise me.

_December._--Have seen a good deal of the Doll with the worldly moustache lately. From certain symptoms, do not despair of reforming him--ultimately. He seems softening. Yesterday he told me he did not think he should live long. Yet he has a splendid constitution--the best porcelain. He is dreadfully cynical--seems so reckless about everything. If I could only reclaim him--for Joseph's sake!

This afternoon I saw the yellow stand which the Wooden Captain used to occupy. What memories it recalled, ah me! Can he have disgraced himself and been "broke"? And am _I_ responsible?

_Christmas Eve._--Am sitting in my corner, my mouse curled comfortably at my feet, when the Walking Postman comes up with a letter--for _me_! It is from the Wicked Doll! He is very ill--_dying_, he thinks--and wishes to see me. How well I remember that _other_ message which Joseph--but Joseph is taken, and the Ball still bounds! Well, I will go. It will be something to tell my Diary.

* * * * *

_Christmas Day._--Something _indeed_! How shall I begin my wondrous _incredible_ tale? I reached the Doll's House, which looked gloomier and more deserted than ever, with the sullen glow of the dying fire reflected redly in its windows. The green door stood open--I went in. "Ha, ha! _trapped_!" cried a sneering voice behind me. It was the Wicked Doll! His letter was a _ruse_--he was as well as I was--and I--I was shut up there in that lonely house, entirely at his mercy!... It was a frightful position for any doll to be placed in; and yet, looking back on it now, I don't think I minded it so _very_ much.

"Listen!" he said, in response to my agonized entreaties. "Long, long ago, when I was young and innocent, a beautiful but heartless being bewitched me, kid and bran! I told my love--she mocked at me. Since then I have sworn, though she has escaped me, to avenge myself by sacrificing the life of the first doll I could entice into my power. _You_ are that doll. You must die!"... "I am quite prepared," I told him--"do your worst!" which seemed to confuse him very much. "I will," he said, "presently--presently; there is no hurry. You see," he explained, in a tone almost of apology, "in endeavouring to save her life (it was my last good action) I got my head smashed, and received the substitute I now wear, which, as you will observe, is that of an unmitigated villain. And it's no use having a head like that if you don't live _up_ to it--_is_ it, now? So--as I think I observed before--prepare for the worst!" "Don't talk about it any more--_do_ it!" I said, and I breathed Joseph's name softly. But the Wicked Doll did nothing at all. I began to feel safer--it was so obvious that he hadn't the faintest notion _what_ to do. "She treated me abominably," he said feebly; "_any_ doll would have been annoyed at the heartless way in which Gloriana----"

I could contain my feelings no longer.

"Joseph!" I gasped (I had lost all fear of him), "you ridiculous old goose, don't you _know_ me? _I_ am Gloriana, and I have found you at last!" And with that I flung myself into his arms, and told him everything. I think he was more relieved than anything. "So _you_ are Gloriana!" he said. "It's dreadfully bewildering; but, to tell you the honest truth, I can't keep up this villainy business any longer. I haven't been brought up to it, and I don't understand how it's done. So I tell you what we'll do. If you'll leave off living up to _your_ new head, I won't try to live up to _mine_!" And so we settled it.

_Postscript. December 31._--We are to be married to-morrow. The Dutch Doll is to be my bridesmaid, and the Wooden Captain (who was only away on sick leave, after all) is coming up to be best man. I have seen the poor old Ball, and told him there will always be a corner for him in our new home. I am very, _very_ happy. To think that Joseph should still care for his poor Gloriana, altered and homely as her once lovely features have now become! But Joseph (who is leaning over my shoulder and reading every word I write) stops me here to assure me that I am lovelier than ever in _his_ eyes. And really--I don't know--perhaps I _am_. And in _other_ persons' eyes, too, if it comes to that. I certainly don't intend to give up society just because I happen to be _married_!

ELEVATING THE MASSES.

(A PURELY IMAGINARY SKETCH.)

_ARGUMENT--MRS. FLITTERMOUSE, having got up a party to assist her in giving an Entertainment at the East End, has called a meeting for the purpose of settling the items in the programme._

_MRS. FLITTERMOUSE'S Drawing-room in Park Lane. Everybody discovered drinking tea, and chatting on matters totally unconnected with Philanthropy._

MRS. FLITTERMOUSE (_imploringly_). Now, _please_, everybody, _do_ attend! It's quite impossible to settle anything while you're all talking about something else. (_Apologies, protests, constrained silence._) Selina, dear, what do you think it would be best to begin with?

The DOWAGER LADY DAMPIER. My dear Fritilla, I have no suggestion to offer. You know my opinion about the whole thing. The people don't want to be elevated, and--if they did--entertaining them is not the proper means to set about it. But I don't wish to discourage you.

MRS. FLITT. Oh, but I think we could do so _much_ to give them a taste for more rational and refined amusements, poor things, to wean them from the coarse pleasures which are all they have at present. Only we must really decide what each of us is going to do.

MRS. PERSE-WEAVER. A violin solo is always popular. And my daughter Cecilia will be delighted to play for you. She has been taught by the best----

CECELIA. Oh, Mother, I couldn't, really! I've never played in public. I _know_ I should break down!

LADY DAMP. In that case, my dear, it would be certainly unwise on your part to attempt it.

MRS. P.-W. Nonsense, Cecilia, nonsense. You _won't_ break down, and it wouldn't matter in the least if you did. _They_ wouldn't notice anything. And it will be such excellent practice for you to get accustomed to a platform, too. Of _course_ she will play for you, dear Mrs. Flittermouse!

MRS. FLITT. It will be _so_ good of you, Miss Weaver. And it won't be like playing to a _real_ audience, you know--poor people are so easily pleased, poor dears. Then I will put that down to begin with. (_She makes a note._) Now we must have something quite different for the next--a reading or something.

LADY HONOR HYNDLEGGS. A--nothin' _humorous_, I hope. I do think we ought to avoid anythin' like descendin' to their level, don't you know.

MR. LOVEGROOVE. Might try something out of _Pickwick_. "_Bob Sawyer's Party_," you know. Can't go far wrong with anything out of Dickens.

MISS DIOVA ROSE. Can't endure him myself. All his characters are so fearfully common; still--(_tolerantly_) I daresay it might amuse--a--that class of persons.

MRS FLITT. I must say I agree with Lady Honor. We should try and aim as high as possible--and well, I think _not_ Dickens, dear Mr. Lovegroove. _Tennyson_ might do perhaps; he's written some charmin' pieces.

MR. LOVEGR. Well, fact is, I don't go in for poetry much myself. But I'll read anythin' of his you think I'm equal to.

MRS. FLITT. Why--a--really, it's so long since I--and I'm afraid I haven't one of his poems in the house. I suppose they are down at Barn-end. But I could send to Cutt and Hawthorn's. I daresay _they_ would have a copy somewhere.

MISS SIBSON-GABLER. Surely Tennyson is rather--a--retrograde? Why not read them something to set them _thinking_? It would be an interesting experiment to try the effect of that marvellous Last Scene in the _Doll's House_. I'd love to read it. It would be like a breath of fresh air to them!

MRS. P.-W. Oh, I've seen that at the Langham Hall. You remember, Cecilia, my taking you there? And Corney Grain played _Noah_. To be sure--we were _quite_ amused by it all.

MISS S.-G. (_coldly_). This is _not_ amusing--it's a play of Ibsen's.

MRS. FLITT. Is that the man who wrote the piece at the Criterion--what is it, _The Toy Shop_? Wyndham acted in it.

LADY DAMP. No, no; IBSEN is the person there's been all this fuss about in the papers--he goes in for unconventionality and all that. I may be wrong, but I think it is _such_ a mistake to have anything unconventional in an entertainment for the people.

MRS. FLITT. But if he's being _talked_ about, dear Lady Dampier, people might like to know something about him. But perhaps we'd better leave Ibsen open, then. Now, what shall we have next?

MISS SKIPWORTH. I tell you what would fetch them--a skirt-dance. I'll dance for you--like a shot. It would be no end of fun doin' it on a regular platform, and I've been studyin' Flossie Frillington, at the Inanity, till I've caught her style exactly.

MR. KEMPTON. Oh, I say, you can give her a stone and a beatin' any day, give you my word you can. She doesn't put anythin' like the go into it you do.

[_MISS S. accepts this tribute with complacency._

MRS. FLITT. A skirt-dance will be the very thing. It's sure to please the people we shall bring over for it--and of course they'll be in the front rows. Yes, I must put _that_ down. We ought to have a song next. Mrs. Tuberose, you promised to come and sing for us--you will, won't you?

MRS. TUBEROSE. Delighted! I rather thought of doing a dear little song Stephan Otis has just brought out. It's called "_Forbidden Fruit_," and he wrote it expressly for me. It goes like this.

[_She sits down at the piano, and sings, with infinite
expression and tenderness._

"Only the moon espies our bliss,
Through the conscious clusters of clematis,
Shedding star-sweet showers.
To-morrow the world will have gone amiss--
Now I gaze in your eyes, love, I thrill to your kiss--
So let us remember naught but this:
That To-night is ours!
Yes, this passionate, perilous, exquisite night--
Is Ours!"

SEVERAL VOICES. Charmin'.... Otis puts so much real feeling into all his songs ... quite a little gem! &c., &c.

LADY DAMP. I should have thought myself that it was rather advanced--for an East-End audience--

MRS. TUBEROSE (_nettled_). Really, dear Lady Dampier, if people see nothing to object in it _here_, I don't see why they should be more particular at the East-End!

MRS. FLITT. Oh, no,--and as if it matters what the _words_ are in the song. I daresay if one heard _their_ songs----Now we want another song--something as different as possible.

MR. GARDINIER. Heard a capital song at the "Pav." the other night--something about a Cock-eyed Kipper. Just suit my voice. I could easily get the words and music, and do that for you--if you like.

SEVERAL VOICES. A Cock-eyed Kipper! It sounds too killing! Oh, we _must_ have that!

LADY DAMP. Might I ask what kind of creature a--a "Cock-eyed Kipper" may be?

MR. GARD. Oh, well, I suppose it's a sort of a dried herring--with a squint, don't you know.

LADY DAMP. I see no humour in making light of a personal deformity, I must say.

MR. GARD. Oh, don't you? _They_ will--it'll go with a scream there!

MISS DIOVA ROSE. Yes, poor dears--and we mustn't mind being just a little vulgar for once--to cheer them up.

LADY HONOR. I have been to the Pavilion and the Tivoli myself, and I heard nothing to object to. I know I was much more amused than I ever am at theatres--_they_ bore me to death.

MR. BAGOTRIX. We might finish up with _Mrs. Jarley's Waxworks_, you know. Some of you can be the figures, and I'll come on in a bonnet and shawl as _Mrs. Jarley_, and wind you up and describe you. I've done it at lots of places in the country; brought in personal allusions and all that sort of thing, and made everybody roar.

LADY DAMP. But will the East-Enders understand your personal allusions?

MR. BAG. Well, you see, the people in the front rows will, which is all _I_ want.

LADY HONOR (_suspiciously_). Isn't _Mrs. Jarley_ out of _Pickwick_, though? That's Dickens, surely!

MR. BAG. (_reassuringly_). Nothing but the name, Lady Honor. I make up all the patter myself, so that'll be all right--just good-natured chaff, you know; if anybody's offended--as I've known them to be--it's no fault of mine.

MRS. FLITT. Oh, I'm sure you will make it funny,--and about getting someone to preside--I suppose we ought to ask the Vicar of the nearest church?

LADY HONOR. Wouldn't it be better to get somebody--a--more in Society, don't you know?

MRS. FLITT. And he might offer to pay for hiring the Hall, and the other expenses. I never thought of that. I'll see whom I can get. Really I think it ought to be great fun, and we shall have the satisfaction of feeling we are doing real good, which is such a comfort!

BOOKMAKERS ON THE BEACH.

A SKETCH AT A SEA-SIDE RACE MEETING.

_The Sands at Baymouth, where some pony and horse races are being run. By the Grand Stand, and under the wall of the esplanade, about a dozen bookmakers, perched on old packing-cases, are clamouring with their customary energy. The public, however, for some reason seems unusually deaf to their blandishments and disinclined for speculation, and the bookmakers, after shouting themselves hoarse with little or no result, are beginning to feel discouraged._

BOOKMAKERS (_antiphonally_). Evens on the field! Three to one bar one! Five to one bar two! Six to one bar one! Even money _Beeswing_! Six to one _Popgun_! Come on 'ere. Two to one on the field! What do you want to _do_?

[_The public apparently want to look another way._

FIRST BOOKMAKER (_to SECOND BOOKMAKER_). Not much 'ere to-day! Shawn't get no roast baked and biled this journey, eh?

SECOND B. (_with deep disgust_). They ain't _got_ no money! Baymouth's going down. Why, this might be a bloomin' Sunday-school treat! Blest if I believe they know what we're 'ere _for_!

THIRD B. (_after pausing to refresh himself, sardonically to FOURTH BOOKMAKER_). De-lightful weather, William!

WILLIAM (_in a similar tone of irony_). What a glorious day, Percy! Sech a treat to see all the people enjoyin' theirselves without any o' the silly speculation yer _do_ find sometimes on occasions like this! (_He accepts the bottle his friend passes, and drinks._) 'Ere's better luck to all!

FIFTH B. (_pathetically_). Don't leave your little Freddy out! (_They don't leave their little FREDDY out._) Cheer up, William, there's 'appier days in store; there'll be Jersey comin' soon. We'll be orf to the sunny south! (_To a stranger who comes up to him._) Why, Uncle, you don't say it's you! How _well_ you're looking! Shake 'ands and 'ave a bit on, jest for ole sake's sake! (_The stranger proceeds to introduce himself as the Secretary, and to demand a fee._) What! pay you five shillins for standin' 'ere wastin' my time and voice like this? Not me! Why, I ain't took two blessed sorcepans since I bin 'ere! (_The Secretary remains firm._) I won't do it, my boy. Not on _prinserple_, I won't. I wouldn't give you five shillins not if your tongue was 'anging down on to your boots--so there! (_The Secretary does not attempt so violent an appeal to his better nature, but calls a police-inspector._) 'Ere, I'd sooner git down and chuck the show altogether; jest to mark my contempt for such goings on! (_He descends from his box; takes down his sign, unscrews his pole, folds up his professional triptych, and departs in a state of virtuous indignation only to be expressed by extreme profanity, while the Secretary proceeds unmoved to collect payments from the others; who eventually compromise the claims for half-a-crown._)

MR. SAM SATCHELL (_"from Southampton"_). Now then, you gentlemen and aristocratic tradesmen, where _are_ you all? Don't any o' you know _anything_? Come on 'ere. (_He stops an elderly rustic._) You've got a fancy, I can see! (_The rustic denies the impeachment, grinning._) Git along with yer, yer artful ole puss, then, and don't keep gentlemen away as wants to bet! (_To a Yeomanry trooper._) Come along, my ole soldier-boy, give it a name! (_His old soldier-boy declines to give it any name, and passes on._) Call yerself a warrior bold, and afraid o' riskin' 'alf-a-crown! Why, yer Queen and country orter be ashamed o' yer! (_As a young farmer in riding-gaiters comes up, with the evident_ _intention of business._) Ah, _you_ don't forget the old firm, I see.... What, four to one not good enough for you? You won't get no better odds, go where you _like_! I suppose you expeck me to make you a present o' the money? (_The farmer moves on._) I dunno what's _come_ to 'em all. _I_ never see nothing like it in all _my_ life!

_In the Grand Stand._

A GLIB PERSON, _in a tall hat_ (_as he picks his way up and down the benches, the occupants of which treat him with intolerant indifference_). I'm not a bookmaker, ladies and gentlemen; don't have that impression of me for a moment! I'm simply an amateur, and an independent gentleman o' means, like any of yourselves. You all know more than _I_ do. I don't come 'ere with any intention o' winning your money--far from it. I'm wishful to settle and live among you. I may eventually put up as your member; and, if so, when I take my place in Parliament I shall be in a position to testify that the Baymouth people are extremely cautious as to the manner in which they invest their money on 'orse-racing'! Yes, I'm 'ere on beyarf of the Sporting League, just to prove how free a meeting like this is from the evils o' gambling. I don't come 'ere to _rob_ yer. I want yer all to win. I like to see yer bright and shining faces around me; I like the friverolity and reckereation and the conviverality of the thing, that's all. I'll tell yer how it is. I've a rich ole aunt, and she puts fifty pound into my 'ands, and sez, "Jacky," she sez, "I love those dear Baymouth people, and I want you to take this 'ere money and lay it out among 'em in moieties, and make 'em rich and 'appy." You can see for yourselves. I've no tickets and no parryfernalia, excep' this little pocket-book, where I enter any bets you honour me with. Come, Miss win a pair o' those three-and-sixpenny gloves at Chickerell's, the ex-Mayor's, to oblige _me_! Did I tread on your corn, Sir? I assure you it was the last thing I intended.... "You knew I'd do it afore I'd done?"... Well, Sir, if you've sech a gift o' seeing into futoority as that, why not make something out of it now? Three to one bar one. _Kitty I'm_ barring. Thank _you_, Sir; 'alf-a-crown to seven and six on _Sportsman_. I tell you candidly--you've got the winner. The favourite won't win. Now, then, all you others, where's your Baymouth pluck? I orfered you thirty to one _Beeswing_ last race; and you wouldn't take it. And _Beeswing_ won, and you lost the chance o' making yer fortunes. Don't blame _me_ if the same thing 'appens again. I'm on'y bettin', as I told you, for my own amusement, and to get rid o' the money! (_&c._, _&c._)

MR. SAM SATCHELL (_whom the apathy of the public has apparently reduced to a state of defiant buffoonery_). Even money _Daredevil_, you rascals! And why the blazes don't ye take it? Come on. I'll take two little bits o' twos that _Kitty_ don't win! Four to one against ole bread-and-butter _Tommy_, over there in the corner! Eleven and a 'alf to three quarters to two against _Kitty_. "What har the Wild Waves say-hay-ing?" Two _Kitties_ to three _Daredevils_ against a bloomin' goat-chaise? On the Baymouth Durby I'm bettin'!

_At the Close of the Last Race--Three horses have started; the favourite has led to the turn and then bolted up the shingle, but, as the tide has come in and almost covered the course, and the other two horses by declining to face the water have let him in again, he wins after an exciting finish, up to the girths in sea-water; and such bookmakers as have succeeded in obtaining patronage are paying up with as much cheerfulness as they can command._

FIRST BOOKMAKER (_to eager backer_). "Wait a bit, my boy, wait _a bit_, the number hasn't gone up yet, my son. Where's your ticket--forty-two? (_His Clerk refers to book._) That's _Squibbs_. I pay over _winners_--not losers. (_To the public._) Come along and fetch your money, the bullion's 'ere! (_To another backer._) What was yours--threes? ("Fours _I_'ve got," _from his Clerk._) Why don't yer arst for what you're entitled to, instead o' makin' me arst my clurk what your bet was? There's your money--take it and go."

[_The backer departs wealthier but abashed._

SECOND B. I'm payin' over that 'ard-run race, gentlemen, men and 'orses exhorsted! I'm payin' over _Susan_--dear ole Susey-hanner! who wants their money? The Bank o' England's 'ere, gentlemen, Mr. Frankie Fairprice and his ole friend, who's always by his side and never looses 'im!

THIRD B. (_who has had to borrow largely from his brethren to meet his engagements_). Are you all done now? (_To the crowd._) Then I'll wish yer good afternoon, thank ye all for yer comp'ny, but you've bin bloomin' bad fun to-day, and you don't ketch me playin' Patience on a monument at any more o' yer blanky sand 'oppin' 'andicaps, that's all!

[_However, the local newspapers report next day that "A number
of the sporting fraternity were in attendance to do business
and apparently carried on a brisk and profitable trade"--which
only shows how difficult it is for the casual observer to form
an accurate opinion._

'IGHER UP!

(A SKETCH OUTSIDE AN OMNIBUS.)

_The Omnibus is on its progress from Piccadilly to the Bank; the weather is raw and unpleasant, and the occupants of the garden-seats on the roof of the vehicle are--for once in a way--mostly men._

FIRST PASSENGER (_to SECOND, an acquaintance_). I see young Bashaway the other day. (_Significantly._) Jest been to see his father, so he told me.

SECOND PASSENGER (_with interest_). _'Ad_ he though? And 'ow did he _find_ him?

FIRST P. Fustrate, young JIM said; didn't know when he'd seen him lookin' better--(_with sentiment_)--quite like his old self!

SECOND P. (_heartily_). That _is_ good 'earin', that is! (_Reflectively._) Seems _rum_, though, come to think of it.

FIRST P. 'Ow d'yer _mean_--rum? It's no more than what yer'd expect, bein' where he is. Look at the _air_ o' the place--there ain't a 'elthier situation all round London, to my mind!

SECOND P. No, that's right enough; and, from all I 'ear, the food's well cooked and served reg'lar, if it _is_ plain.

FIRST P. Ah, and Bill _enjoys_ his meals now, he does--the work gives him a appetite, and it's years, to my certain knowledge, since he done a stroke, and o' course he ain't allowed no drink----

SECOND P. And _that's_ enough, of itself, to be the savin' of 'im, the way he was!

FIRST P. Then, yer see, there's the reg'lar hours, and the freedom from worry, and the like, and nothink on his mind, and the place with every sanitary improvement and that--why, he owns his own self it's bin the makin' of 'im. And from what young Jim was a tellin' me, it appears that if Bill goes on gittin' good-conduck marks at the rate he's doin', there'll be a nice little sum doo to 'im when he's done his time at Wormwood Scrubs.

SECOND P. (_sympathetically_). Well, and that makes suthin' to look forward to, don't it, when he _does_ git let out. Talkin' o' that, you've known 'im longer 'n what I 'ave. Do you 'appen to know what it was as he got inter trouble _for_?

FIRST P. (_with the consciousness of superior delicacy_). Lor' bless yer, I never thought o' arskin' 'im the question.

SECOND P. (_with feeble self-assertion under this implied rebuke_). Well, it all depends on 'ow yer _put_ a question o' that sort.

[_He is silent for the remainder of the journey._

A CHATTY PASSENGER (_to a CONTRADICTIOUS PASSENGER, as the 'bus passes Trafalgar Square_). Pretty these 'ere fountains look, with the water playin', don't they?

The CONTRADICIOUS PASSENGER. The fountings are well enough, if it wasn't fur the water--norsty messy stuff, I call it.

The CHATTY P. (_abandoning the fountains_). It's wonderful what an amount o' traffic there is in the Strand, ain't it?

CONTRAD. P. Nothink to what it was forty years ago!

[_His neighbour, not feeling in a position to deny it,
subsides._

The DRIVER (_to a PASSENGER WITH A BADGE, immediately behind him_). 'Ow is it you're orf yer keb to-day, Bob? Taking a day orf, or what?

The PASSENGER WITH A BADGE. Not much. Goin' up to Bow Street to gimmy evidence in a collision case--that's all.

DRIVER (_dubiously_). Bow Street! Ain't that rorther shovin' yer 'ed in the lion's mouth, eh?

The P. WITH A B. (_with virtuous serenity_). Not _it_! What ha' they got agen me all the time I bin licensed? Only three drunks and a loiter!

The CHATTY P. (_returning to the charge_). Orful state the roads are in with all this mud! I s'pose that's the London County Council, eh?

The CONTRAD. P. London Kayounty Kayouncil! No, it ain't--nothink o' the sort! I'll _tell_ yer 'oo it is, if yer want to know; it's Gladstone!

The CHATTY P. (_mildly surprised, but glad to have discovered common ground_). I see you're a Conservative--like myself.

The CONTRAD. P. That's jest where you're _wrong_! I ain't no Conservative, nor yet I don't want none o' Gladstone neither. I'm a Radikil, _I_ am. John Burns and Ben Tillett--that's _my_ lot!

The CHATTY P. (_reluctantly relinquishing politics_). Ah, well, every man's got a right to form his own opinions, ain't he?

The CONTRAD. P. No, he _ain't_--not if he goes and forms _wrong_ 'uns! (_A pause._) 'Ave yer got the time about yer?

The CHATTY P. (_accepting this as a sign of softening_). I'm sorry to say I come out without my watch this morning, or else----But there's plenty o' clocks about as'll tell yer.

The CONTRAD. P. (_with intense disdain_). Clocks! You don't ketch _me_ trusting no clocks--with no two of 'em alike!

The CHATTY P. (_as they pass a well-known watchmaker's_). Well, 'ow about that clock with the figgers? Won't _that_ do yer? They set it to Grinnidge time every hour, so it's bound to be right!

The CONTRAD. P. (_as descends_). There yer _are_! Think I'd put my faith in a clock as 'as to be set right every hour? 'Tain't _likely_! Good-day to yer!

The CHATTY P. So long! (_To himself._) A pleasant feller enough, I dessay, if you leave the subjec' to _'im_!

DRIVER (_to smart HANSOM CABMAN_). Now then, outer the way with that 'ere 'Ackney keb o' yours!

HANSOM CABMAN (_with hauteur_). As it 'appens, it _ain't_ a 'Ackney cab--it's a private kerridge, this is!

DRIVER. Ah, I might ha' known _you_ was a hammytoor by yer silly hasslike method o' conducting yer business! [_Drives on triumphant._

A POLITICAL PASSENGER (_with a panacea--to a "KNOWLEDGABLE" PASSENGER_). No, I don't want no 'Ome Rule, nor yet no Parish Counsels, nor nothink o' _that_. What _I_ wanter see interdooced 'ere is Tereenial Porliments.

The KNOWLEDGABLE PASSENGER (_with respect_). Tereenial Parliments? I don't know as I've 'eard o' _them_.

The POL. P. Ain't yer? Well, they're what we _want_. Why, they've 'ad 'em in America, they've ad 'em in Ostralia, they've 'ad 'em in Orstria; and everywhere, mind yer, _everywhere_ they've been in operation they've turned out a success!

The KN. P. Then it's 'igh time _we_ 'ad 'em. _What_ is it they're called, again?

The POL. P. Tee-reen-ial Porliments. It stands to _reason_ they work well. There they _are_, a settin' eight months in the year fur seven year on end--somethink's _bound_ to come of it! I'd like to see any o' _our_ lot settin' like that! It's a pity we don't take more pattern by America in our law-makin'.

The KN. P. Except in our criminal law. Why, I've 'eard there's States out there where a man may go and commit a crime, d'ye see, and once he gits across the boundary from one State into another--like as it might be a line across this 'ere street like, d'ye see--once he's over that, they can't do nothink to 'im!

The POL. P. (_thoughtfully_). Ah, that wouldn't never do '_ere_, that wouldn't!

[_The CONDUCTOR comes up to collect fares._

CONDUCTOR (_to a SLEEPY PASSENGER in a corner_). Now then, fare, please?

The SLEEPY PASSENGER (_with manly regret_). I ain't gorrit, ole pal. If yer'd asht me jes' two minutes afore I gorrup, I could ha' done it for yer, but I took jes' anorrer glash an' blued th' lot. No man can say I don' part s'long's I gorrer _money_; no freehandeder man anywheresh'n wharri am; but yer come on me too late. (_Shaking his head reproachfully._) Thash where 'tis, yer come on me too late!

COND. 'Ere, I ain't goin' to stand no nonsense! If yer 'aven't got the money, git down orf o' my bus, and quick, too!

The SL. P. Ged _down_? An' _quick_! You wouldn' tor' li' that if you'd sheen wharrer bloomin' 'ard job I 'ad to get _up_! [_He resumes his slumber._

COND. (_passing on, softened_). I can't go and break the beggar's neck for tuppence, and he's got it somewhere about him, as likely as not. (_To a LITIGIOUS PASSENGER._) Tuppence is the fare, Sir, if _you_ please.

The LITIGIOUS PASSENGER. One penny is the legal fare, and all I intend to pay. I know the law!

COND. And so do I. It's wrote up tuppence inside the bus. If yer ain't going to pay more, yer'd better git down; ye've 'ad over your penn'orth a'ready!

The LITIG. P. (_with spirit_). I decline to get down. I insist on being taken to the Bank for my penny.

COND. Oh, _do_ yer? We'll see about that.

[_He stops the 'bus and calls a CONSTABLE, to whom he briefly
explains the situation._

CONSTABLE (_pacifically, from below, to the LITIG. P._). Come, Sir, don't block the traffic, like this 'ere! Either pay the man his fare or get down--one of the two.

The LITIG. P. (_from the roof_). I have a legal right to remain here if I like!

CONST. That may be, Sir; but if you do, this man can summons you that's all.

The LITIG. P. (_warming with the joy of battle_). That's just what I _want_ him to do! Can't I _make_ him summon me?

COND. (_disgusted_). 'Ere, 'ang it all! _do_ yer think I'm goin' to cart you 'arf over London fur a penny, and throw yer in the luxury of a lawsoot? 'Ere's yer penny back, and I give yer the ride free, _there_!

The LITIG. P. (_accepting the penny, and descending with dignity_). Very well; and let me tell you this, it was just as well you gave way when you did, for I was quite prepared to carry the case to the House of Lords!

COND. Ah! and I s'pose yer think yer'd git _there_ for a penny?

[_The Omnibus goes on before the LITIGIOUS PERSON has time to
think over such an obvious repartee as asking the CONSTABLE to
take the man's number._

AT A HIGHLAND CATTLE AUCTION.

_A Yard. In the open space between the rows of pens the AUCTIONEER is trying to dispose of some horses which are trotted out one by one in the usual fashion._

THE AUCTIONEER (_spectacled, red-bearded, canny, slightly Arcadian touch imparted by straw hat, and a sprig of heather in his button-hole_). What'll I say for this, noo? (_A horse of a meditative mien is just brought in._) Here's a beast, and a very good beast, from Lochaber! (_The bystanders remain unmoved._) He was bred by Meester MacFarlane, o' Drumtappit, and ye'll all ha' haird on him as the biggest breeder in these pairts. (_Heads are shaken, so much as to intimate that this particular animal does not do Mr. MacFarlane justice._) Trot him up an' doon a bit, boy, and show his action--stan' away back there! _(With affected concern_.) Don't curb him so tight--be careful now, or ye'll do meeschief to yourself an' others! (_As the horse trots past them,_ _several critics slap it disrespectfully on the hind-quarters--a liberty which it bears with meekness._) There's a pace for ye--he's a guid woorker, a gran' beast--hoo much shall we say for him? (_Nobody seems able to express his appreciation of the grand beast in figures._) Just to stairt ye then--twenty poon! (_Even the animal himself appears slightly staggered by this sum; bystanders are quietly derisive; AUCTIONEER climbs rapidly down without interruption till he reaches six pounds, when he receives his first bid._) Sex poon' is bed for 'm--is there ony advance on sex poon? (_Someone in the background:--"Fefteen shellin'!"_) Sex-fefteen--noo, Meester McRobbie, wull ye no luik this way? (_MR. MCR. responds by a decided negative._) Ye won't? Ah, I never got ony guid from ye--'cept when I didn't meet ye. (_This piece of Scotch "wut" raises a laugh at MR. MCR.'S expense, but does not affect the bidding, which still languishes._) Then, he's going at sex-fefteen--for the last time. Whaur's my bedder at sex-fefteen? (_Repentance or modesty prevents the bidder from coming forward, and the AUCTIONEER continues, more in grief than anger._) Eh, this is too bad noo--I'll thank no man for making me a bed, 'cept those that are meant in airnest. No one bed onything for a beast like this! Then I hae to tell ye ye've not bed near up to the resairve price on it. (_Suddenly becomes weary of the animal._) Tak' it awa'. (_The next horse is led in._) Now, here's a beast that's well-known, I'm thenkin'. (_The general expression signifies that its reputation is not altogether to its credit._) There's a well-bred mare--open up, and let her show hersel'. (_The mare is shown, but fails to excite competition._) Ah, ye'll ony buy screws to-day, an' not the nice things at a'--tak' her away. (_The mare is taken out ignominiously; AUCTIONEER, followed by crowd, leads the way to where a pony and trap are standing harnessed._) Noo, I'm gaun to pit up the pony an' van--just show them hoo she goes in hairness, boy. (_To intrusive collie._) Out of the way, dug, in case ye get your feet smashed. (_Trap starts off, and is driven out of sight._) Whaur's the laddie gaun ta? Thenks he'll show himsel' at Nairn, maybe! Ah, here she comes. (_Trap returns at a modest pace._) Stan' back, noo, all of ye; give her room. I'll sell the mare first, and a beauty she is--what shell we say? Ten poons--and she's a nice one! Well, stairt her at five, she may get up. (_Bidding gets up to ten pounds, where it stops._) Then she goes at ten, and I'm very glad she's gaun to a gude auld friend o' mine--Meester McKenzie, o' Glenbannock. Wull ye say five mair, and take the hairness, Meester McKenzie? It's _richt_ hairness! (_MR. MCK. declines to be tempted._) Well, I'm sorry ye wull na, I'd ha liked (_sentimentally, as if it had been the dream of his life_) for the mare an' the hairness to go togither and no to pairt them--but as 'tis, it canna be helped. We'll pass on to the pegs, if you please. (_Passes to a row of pens containing pigs, and mounts some planks placed along the top._) Now, these are some proper pegs. (_A rush is made for the rails enclosing the pigs, which instantly become self-conscious and redouble their grunts._) Noo, laddies, laddies, it's no fair o' ye taking up a' the room i' that way. I'm quite sure there's a lot o' ye in front that's no buying pegs--ye hanna the luik o' pairsons that buy pegs. Stan' by for shame, and don't keep them that comes to buy, where they canna see sae much as a tail. Hoo much apiece for these palefaced pegs? Ye've an awfu' guid view o' them there, Mr. Ferguson,---luik this way once again for forrty and threepence. (_Persuasively._) It'll soun' better wi' the threepence. Gaun' for forty an' three. (_The owner of the pigs calls out "No!"_) I thocht I made a law here that people having pegs should gie me the resairve at the time--see what ye do now, Peter MacPhairson, make a fule of the buyers and a fule o' mysel'!--but (_with tolerant contempt_) Peter is not a strong man, we must no be haird on Peter. (_Roar from crowd;_ _disappearance of MR. MACPH._) I'll cancel no more sales that way, however, as I eentimate to ye once for a'.

'ARRY (_on tour from Town--to his admiring friend_). I say, Charley, what d'yer bet I don't talk to some of these chaps in their own lingo?

CHARLEY. What a fellow you are! Mind what you are about, that's all.

'ARRY (_going up to an elderly person in the only Scotch cap visible_). Hech, Sair, but yon's a braw bonnie wee bit piggie fur a body to tak' a richt gude wullie waucht wi' gin ye meet him comin' thro' the rye!

The PERSON IN THE SCOTCH CAP (_who happens to be a retired Colonel in a Highland Regiment, who is somewhat careless in his attire_). I think you will find that sort of thing better appreciated after you've got home.

[_'ARRY returns to CHARLEY, feeling much smaller than he allows
his friend to perceive._

THE COUNTRY OF COCKAIGNE.

A MONOLOGUE--WITH A MORAL.

_An airless Court in a London back Street. TIME--August._

JIMMY (_aged eight, to Florrie, aged seven_). No, I ain't comin' to the Reckereation Groun', not jess yit, I carn't.... I'm goin' ter wyte about 'ere till the lidy comes.... Why, 'er as is comin' to see my Muvver 'bout sendin' me fur a fortnight in the kerntry.... Yus, where I was larst year.... It's settled as I'm ter go agine--leastways as _good_ as settled. My Farver 'e've sent in a happlication to the K'mitty, and Teacher 'e sez 'e kin reckermend me, an' Mr. and Mrs. Delves--them as 'ad the cottidge where I went afore--they've arst fur to 'ave me agin--so you see, Florrie, it's all _right_. On'y I carn't settle to nuffink afore I know when I'm goin', an' about the trine an' that. Yer 'ave to roide in a trine to git to the kerntry, yer know.... Wot, ain't yer never bin there?... Yer'd wanter fawst enough if yer knoo what it was loike.... There's grorss there, an' trees an' that.... Na-ow, a _lot_ better 'n the Reckereation Groun'--that's all mide outer old grivestones as the deaders 'as done wiv. There's 'ills an' bushes an' 'edges where yer can pick flowers.... There ain't no perlice to _git_ yer locked up.... An' everyfink smells so lovelly, kinder 'elthy like--it mikes yer feel 'ungry.... Not like sassages an' inions azackly--'tain't that sorter smell.... On'y 'ere and there, an' yer'd 'ardly tell they _was_ shops, they kerry 'em on that quoiet.... Yer wouldn' call it poky if yer was there. Mr. Delves 'e _was_ a kind man, 'e was; mide me a whistle out a sickermore brornch, 'e did; and Mrs. Delves, she lemme help her feed the chickings.... They 'ad a garding beyind, an' there'd bin rasberries an' gooseberries a growin' on bushes--strite, there 'ad--I ain't tellin' yer no lies--on'y they was all gone by then. An' they 'ad a dog--Rover _'is_ nime was--'e was a koind dog, lemme lay insoide of 'is kennel orfen, 'e would.... I'd like ter 'ave a run over thet Common agen, too. I dessay as I shell--p'reps the d'y arter to-morrer.... There's a pond on it, an' geese, an' they comes at yer a stritching out their necks an' a-'issin' thet sevidge.... Na-ow, yer've on'y got ter walk up to 'em, an' they goes orf, purtendin' they took yer fur somebody else, an' wasn't meanin' no offence. I ain't afride o' no geese, I ain't--nor yet Lily wasn't neither. We sor a pig 'aving a ring put froo 'is nose one day. 'E 'ollered out like 'e was bein' killed--but 'e wasn't. An' there was a blecksmiff's, where they put the 'orse's shoes on red 'ot, 'an the 'orse 'e never took no notice. Me and Lily used ter go fur long walks, all under trees. Once she showed me a squill--"squerl" _she_ kep' a-calling of it, till I tole 'er 'ow--an' it run up a tree zigzag, and jumped on to another ever so fur. That was when we was pickin' nuts. We went a blackberryin', too, one day.... Na-ow, there warn't nobody dead. An' Lily ... Lily Delves 'er nime was, b'longed to them I was stoppin' wiv.... I didn't notice partickler.... Older nor you, an' bigger, and lots redder 'bout the cheeks.... She wasn't a bad sort--fur a gal.... I dunno; I liked _all_ on 'em.... Well, there was Farmer Furrows, 'e was very familiar, said as 'ow I might go inter 'is horchard and pick the happles up as was layin' there jest fur the askin'. An' Bob Rumble, 'im as druv Mr. Kennister the grocer's cart, 'e used ter gimme a roide along of 'im when 'e was tikin' round porcels an' that. We'd go along lanes that 'igh yer couldn't see nuffink fur leaves; and once 'e druv along a Pork with tremenjus big trees in it, an' stagses walkin' about underneath with grite big 'orns.... Suthink like 'im as is drawed outside the public round the corner--on'y they warn't none o' them gold. I 'speck them gold ones is furrin'.... An' the grub--we 'ad beekstike pudd'n o' Sundays, an' as much bread an' treacle every day as ever I could eat, and I _was_ 'ungry when I was in the kerntry.... An' when I come away Mrs. Delves, she gethered me a big noseguy fur to tike 'ome to Muvver--kissantimums, merrigoles, an' dyliers, all sorts there was--an' Murver she put 'em in a jug, and soon as ever I shet my eyes an' sniffed, I could see that garding and Rover and Lily as _pline_--but they went bad, an' 'ad to be froed aw'y at larst. I shall see 'em all agine very soon now, though, won't thet be proime, eh?... Whatsy? 'Ere, Florrie, you ain't _croying_, are yer?... Why don't yer arsk yer Farver if 'e won't let _you_ go.... Oh, I thought as yer _wanted_ to go. Then what _are_ yer----?... No, I ain't gled to git aw'y from you.... A-course I shell be gled to see 'er; but that ain't why, it's jest----You ain't never bin in the kerntry, or you'd know 'ow I'm feelin'.... There's the lidy comin' now. I must cut across an' 'ear what she sez to Muvver. Don' tike on--'tain't o'ny fur a fortnight, anyway.... Look 'ere, I got suthink' for yer, Florrie, bought it orf a man what 'ad a tray on 'em--it's a wornut, d'ye see? Now open it--ain't them two little choiner dolls noice, eh?... I'd rorther you 'ad it nor 'er, strite, I would!... I'll be back in a minnit.

_After an Interval of Twenty-four Hours._

No, _I_ ain't bin nowhere particular.... Settled? yus, it's all settled 'bout me goin' ter the kerntry.... To-morrer? no, I ain't goin' _to-morrer_.... Nex' week? not as I _knows_ on.... You wanter know sech a _lot_, you do!... If I _do_ tell yer, you'll on'y go an' larf.... Well, I ain't goin' at all--_now_ I 'ope you're pleased.... What's the good o' bein' _sorry_?... Oh, I don't keer much, I don't.... Set down on this step alonger me, then, and don't you go saying nuffink, or I'll stop tellin' of yer.... You remember me goin' in yes'day arternoon to 'ear what the lidy said? Well, when I got in, I 'eard 'er s'y, "Yus, it'll be a great disappintment for '_im_, pore boy," she sez, "arter lookin' forward to it an' all; but it can't be 'elped." And Muvver, she sez, "'Is Farver'll be sorry, too; it done Jimmy ser much good larst time. 'E can't pay not more nor 'arf-a-crownd a week towards it, but he can manage that, bein' in work jess now." But the lidy sez, "It's this w'y," she sez, "it costis us neelly arf a suffering over what the parint pays fur each child, and we ain't got the fun's fur to send more 'n a few, cos the Public don' suscroibe ser much as they might," she sez. "An' so this year we're on'y sending children as is delikit, an' reelly _wants_ a chinge." So yer see, I ain't a goin'. I dunno as I'm delikit; but I _do_ want the kerntry _orful_ bad, I do. I wish I never 'adn't bin there at all 'cos then preps I shouldn' mind. An' yit I'm gled I bin, too. I dreamt about it larst night, Florrie, I did. I was a-settin' on this 'ere step, sime as I am now, an' it was 'ot an' stoiflin', like it is; an' all of a suddink I see Mr. Kennister's' cart wiv the grey 'orse turn into our court an' pull up hoppersite, an' Bob Rumble 'e was a-driving on it. An' 'e sez, "Jump up!" 'e sez, "an' I'll tike yer back to Mr. Delves's cottidge." And I sez, "May Florrie come too?" An' 'e sez, "Yus, both on yer." So up we gits, and we was droivin' along the lanes, and I was showin' yer the squills an' the stagses, an' jes as we come to the turn where yer kin see the cottidge----Well, I don' remember no more on it. But it was a noice dream so far as I got wiv it, an' if I 'adn't never bin there, I couldn' ha' dreamt it, _could_ I, eh? An', like as not, I'll dream the rest on it anuvver night.... An' you must try an' dream your share, too, Florrie. It'll be a'most like bein' in the kerntry in a sort o' w'y fur both on us, won't it?

THE MORAL.

(_The Offices of the Children's Country Holidays Fund are at 10, Buckingham Street, Strand, and contributions should be made payable to the Hon. Treasurer._)

THE END.

In Crown 8vo, cloth, price 5s.

PUPPETS AT LARGE.

By F. ANSTEY, Author of "Vice Versa," &c.

Scenes and Sketches reprinted from "PUNCH" with 16 page Illustrations by J. B. PARTRIDGE.

In Crown 8vo, cloth, price 5s.

UNDER THE ROSE.

A STORY IN SCENES.

By F. ANSTEY, Author of "Vice Versa," &c.

Reprinted from "PUNCH" with 15 Illustrations by J. B. PARTRIDGE.

"Will provoke many a hearty laugh. From first to last the fun
is legitimate."--_Morning Post._

"The fun of it never flags for a moment."--_St. James'
Gazette._

In Crown 8vo, cloth, price 3s. 6d.

MR. PUNCH'S YOUNG RECITER.

WITH INTRODUCTIONS, REMARKS, AND STAGE-DIRECTIONS.

By F. ANSTEY, Author of "Vice Versa," &c.

Reprinted from "PUNCH" with Additions, and with 34 "PUNCH" Illustrations.

"Very well written, and any modern humorist might be proud of
them."--_Athenaeum._

In Crown 8vo, cloth, price 4s. 6d.

MR. PUNCH'S MODEL MUSIC-HALL

SONGS AND DRAMAS.

By F. ANSTEY, Author of "Mr. Punch's Young Reciter."

Collected, Improved, and Re-arranged from "PUNCH" with 13 full-page and a number of other Illustrations.

"This volume has caused us more laughter than anything else Mr.
Anstey has written since 'Vice Versa.' Some of the songs and
dances are screamingly funny."--_Review of Reviews._

In Crown 8vo, cloth, price 4s. 6d.