Chapter M: PAULUS. Et quand j'rentr', ce n'est pour rien (1)

Ma belle me dit: "Mon pauv' bonhomme,
Tu n'a pas l'air de"--(_The cymbals_: brim-brin-brien!)
Ell' m' flanqu' des giffl's--(_The drum_: pom-pom-pom-pom!)

_Refrain_ (_which both Britons understood_).

"Sur le bi--sur le bo; sur le bo, de bi, de bo.
Sur le bo--sur le bi; sur le bi, de bo, de bi!" &c., &c., &c.

FIRST BRITON (_after twenty minutes of this sort of thing_). That's the end, I suppose. They've let down the curtain. _Capital_, wasn't he? I could listen to him all night!

SECOND B. (_as they pass out_). So could I--delightful! Don't know when I've enjoyed anything so much. The other people don't seem to be moving, though. (_Consults programme._) There's another Part after this; Paulus is singing again. I suppose you'll stay?

FIRST B. Well--it's rather late, isn't it?

SECOND B. (_much relieved_). Yes. Not worth while going back now (_with a yawn_). We must come here again.

FIRST B. (_making a mental resolution to return no more_). Oh, we must; nothing like it on our side of the Channel, y' know.

SECOND B. (_with secret gratitude_). No, we can't do it. (_Walk back to their hotel in a state of great mental exhaustion, and finish the evening with a bock on the Boulevards._)

At a Garden Party

SCENE--_A London Lawn. A Band in a costume half-way between the uniforms of a stage hussar and a circus groom, is performing under a tree. Guests discovered slowly pacing the turf, or standing and sitting about in groups._

MRS. MAYNARD GERY (_to her_ _Brother-in-law_--_who is thoroughly aware of her little weaknesses_). Oh, Phil,--you know everybody--_do_ tell me! Who is that common-looking little man with the scrubby beard, and the very yellow gloves--how does he come to be _here_?

PHIL. Where? Oh, I see him. Well--have you read _Sabrina's Uncle's Other Niece_?

MRS. M. G. No--_ought_ I to have? I never even heard of it!

PHIL. Really? I wonder at that--tremendous hit--you must order it--though I doubt if you'll be able to get it.

MRS. M. G. Oh, I shall _insist_ on having it. And _he_ wrote it? Really, Phil, now I come to look at him, there's something rather striking about his face. Did you say _Sabrina's Niece's Other Aunt_--or what?

PHIL. _Sabrina's Uncle's Other Niece_ was what I _said_--not that it signifies.

MRS. M. G. Oh, but I always attach the greatest importance to names, myself. And do you know him?

PHIL. What, Tablett? Oh, yes--decent little chap; not much to say for himself, you know.

MRS. M. G. I don't mind _that_ when a man is _clever_--do you think you could bring him up and introduce him?

PHIL. Oh, I _could_--but I won't answer for your not being disappointed in him.

MRS. M. G. I have never been disappointed in any genius _yet_--perhaps, because I don't expect too much--so go, dear boy; he may be surrounded unless you get hold of him soon. [Phil _obeys_.

PHIL (_accosting the Scrubby Man_). Well, Tablett, old fellow, how are things going with you? _Sabrina_ flourishing?

MR. TABLETT (_enthusiastically_). It's a tremendous hit, my boy; orders coming in so fast they don't know how to execute 'em--there's a fortune in it, as I always told you!

PHIL. Capital!--but you've such luck. By the way, my sister-in-law is most anxious to know you.

MR. T. (_flattered_). Very kind of her. I shall be delighted. I was just thinking I felt quite a stranger here.

PHIL. Come along then, and I'll introduce you. If she asks you to her parties by any chance, mind you go--sure to meet a lot of interesting people.

MR. T. (_pulling up his collar_). Just what I enjoy--meeting interesting people--the only society worth cultivating, to my mind, Sir. Give me _intellect_--it's of more value than wealth!

[_They go in search of_ Mrs. M. G.

FIRST LADY ON CHAIR. Look at the dear Vicar getting that poor Lady Pawperse an ice. What a very spiritual expression he has, to be sure--really quite apostolic!

SECOND LADY. We are not in his parish, but I have always heard him spoken of as a most excellent man.

FIRST LADY. Excellent! My dear, that man is a perfect _Saint_! I don't believe he knows what it is to have a single worldly thought! And such trials as he has to bear, too! With that _dreadful_ wife of his!

SECOND LADY. That's the wife, isn't it?--the dowdy little woman, all alone, over there? Dear me, what _could_ he have married her for?

FIRST LADY. Oh, for her _money_ of course, my dear!

MRS. PATTALLON (_to_ MRS. ST. MARTIN SOMERVILLE). Why, it really _is_ you! I absolutely didn't know you at first. I was just thinking "Now who _is_ that young and lovely person coming along the path?" You see--I came out without my glasses to-day, which accounts for it!

MR. CHUCK (_meeting a youthful Matron and Child_). Ah, Mrs. Sharpe, how de do! _I'm_ all right. Hullo, TOTO, how are _you_, eh, young lady?

TOTO (_primly_). I'm very well indeed, thank you. (_With sudden interest._) How's the idiot? Have you seen him lately?

MR. C. (_mystified_). The idiot, eh? Why, fact is, I don't _know_ any idiot!--give you my word!

TOTO (_impatiently_). Yes, you _do_--_you_ know. The one Mummy says you're next door to--you must see him _sometimes_! You _did_ say Mr. Chuck was next door to an idiot, didn't you, Mummy? [_Tableau._

MRS. PRATTLETON. Let me see--_did_ we have a fine Summer in '87? Yes, of course--I always remember the weather by the clothes we wore, and that June and July we wore scarcely anything--some filmy stuff that belonged to one's ancestress, don't you know. _Such_ fun! By the way, what has become of Lucy?

MRS. ST. PATTICKER. Oh, I've quite lost sight of her lately--you see she's so perfectly happy now, that she's ceased to be in the least interesting!

MRS. HUSSIFFE (_to_ MR. DE MURE). Perhaps _you_ can tell me of a good coal merchant? The people who supply me now are perfect _fiends_, and I really must go somewhere else.

MR. DE MURE. Then I'm afraid you must be rather difficult to please.

MR. TABLETT _has been introduced to_ MRS. MAYNARD GERY--_with the following result_.

MRS. M. G. (_enthusiastically_). I'm so delighted to make your acquaintance. When my brother-in-law told me who you were, I positively very nearly shrieked. I am such an admirer of your--(_thinks she won't commit herself to the whole title--and so compounds_)--your delightful _Sabrina_!

MR. T. Most gratified to hear it, I'm sure. I'm told there's a growing demand for it.

MRS. M. G. Such a hopeful sign--when one was beginning quite to despair of the public taste!

MR. T. Well, I've always said--So long as you give the Public a really first-rate article, and are prepared to spend any amount of money on _pushing_ it, you know, you're sure to see a handsome return for your outlay--in the long run. And of course you must get it carefully analysed by competent judges--

MRS. M. G. Ah, but _you_ can feel independent of criticism now, can't you?

MR. T. Oh, I defy any one to find anything unwholesome in it--it's as suitable for the most delicate child as it is for adults--nothing to irritate the most sensitive--

MRS. M. G. Ah, you mean certain critics are so thin-skinned--they are: indeed!

MR. T. (_warming to his subject_). But the beauty of this particular composition is that it causes absolutely no unpleasantness or inconvenience afterwards. In some cases, indeed, it acts like a charm. I've known of two cases of long-standing erysipelas it has completely cured.

MRS. M. G. (_rather at sea_). How gratifying that must be. But that is the magic of all truly great work, it is such an _anodyne_--it takes people so completely out of themselves--doesn't it?

MR. T. It takes anything of that sort out of _them_, Ma'am. It's the finest discovery of the age, no household will be without it in a few months--though perhaps I say it who shouldn't.

MRS. M. G. (_still more astonished_). Oh, but I _like_ to hear you. I'm so tired of hearing people pretending to disparage what they have done, it's such a _pose_, and I hate posing. Real genius is _never_ modest. (_If he had been more retiring, she would have, of course, reversed this axiom._) I _wish_ you would come and see me on one of my Tuesdays, MR. TABLETT, I should feel so honoured, and I think you would meet some congenial spirits--do look in some evening--I will send you a card if I may--let me see--could you come and lunch next Sunday? I've got a little man coming who was very nearly eaten up by cannibals. I think _he_ would interest you.

MR. T. I shall be proud to meet him. Er--did they eat _much_ of him?

MRS. M. G. (_who privately thinks this rather vulgar_). How _witty_ you are! That's quite worthy of--er--_Sabrina_, really! Then you _will_ come? So glad. And now I mustn't keep you from your other admirers any longer. [_She dismisses him._

LATER.

MRS. M. G. (_to her_ BROTHER-IN-LAW). How _could_ you say that dear Mr. Tablett was _dull_, Phil? I found him perfectly charming--so original and unconventional! He's promised to come to me. By the way, _what_ did you say the name of his book was?

PHIL. _I_ never said he had written a book.

MRS. M. G. Phil--you _did_!--_Sabrina's Other--Something._ Why, I've been _praising_ it to him, entirely on your recommendation.

PHIL. No, no--_your_ mistake. I only asked you if you'd read _Sabrina's Uncle's Other Niece_, and, as I made up the title on the spur of the moment, I should have been rather surprised if you had. _He_ never wrote a line in his life.

MRS. M. G. How _abominable_ of you! But surely he's famous for _something_? He talks like it. [_With reviving hope._

PHIL. Oh, yes, he's the inventor and patentee of the new "Sabrina" Soap--he says he'll make a fortune over it.

MRS. M. G. But he hasn't even done _that_ yet! PHIL, I'll _never_ forgive you for letting me make such an idiot of myself. What _am_ I to do now? I _can't_ have him coming to me--he's really too impossible!

PHIL. Do? Oh, order some of the soap, and wash your hands of him, I suppose--not that he isn't a good deal more presentable than some of your lions, after all's said and done!

[MRS. M. G., _before she takes her leave, contrives to inform_
MR. TABLETT, _with her prettiest penitence, that she has only
just recollected that her luncheon party is put off, and that
her Tuesdays are over for the Season. Directly she returns to
Town, she promises to let him hear from her; in the meantime,
he is not to think of troubling himself to call. So there is no
harm done, after all._

At the Military Tournament.

SCENE--_The Agricultural Hall. Tent-pegging going on._

STENTORIAN JUDGE (_in Arena_). Corporal Binks! (_The Assistants give a finishing blow to the peg, and fall back._ Corporal BINKS _gallops in, misses the peg, and rides off, relieving his feelings by whirling his lance defiantly in the air_.) Corporal Binks--nothing!

A GUSHING LADY. Poor dear thing! I _do_ wish he'd struck it! He did look so disappointed, and so did that sweet horse!

THE JUDGE. Sergeant Spanker! (Sergeant S. _gallops in, spears the peg neatly, and carries it off triumphantly on the point of the lance, after which he rides back and returns the peg to the Assistants as a piece of valuable property of which he has accidentally deprived them._) Sergeant Spanker--eight! (_Applause; the Assistants drive in another peg._) Corporal Cutlash! (Corporal C. _enters, strikes the peg, and dislodges without securing it. Immense applause from the Crowd._) Corporal Cutlash--two!

THE GUSHING LADY. Only two, and when he really did hit the peg! I do call that a shame. I should have given him more marks than the other man--he has such a _much_ nicer face!

A CHILD WITH A THIRST FOR INFORMATION. Uncle, why do they call it _tent_-pegging?

THE UNCLE. Why? Well, because those pegs are what they fasten down tents with.

THE CHILD. But why isn't there a tent now?

UNCLE. Because there's no use for one.

CHILD. Why?

UNCLE. Because all they want to do is to pick up the peg with the point of their lance.

CHILD. Yes, but why _should_ they want to do it?

UNCLE. Oh, to amuse their horses. (_The_ CHILD _ponders upon this answer with a view to a fresh catechism upon the equine passion for entertainment, and the desirability, or otherwise, of gratifying it_.)

A CHATTY MAN IN THE PROMENADE (_to his_ NEIGHBOUR). Takes a deal of practice to strike them pegs fair and full.

HIS NEIGHBOUR (_who holds advanced Socialistic opinions_). Ah, I dessay--and a pity they can't make no better use o' their time! Spoiling good wood, _I_ call it. I don't see no point in it myself.

THE CHATTY MAN. Well, it shows they can _ride_, at any rate.

THE SOCIALIST. Ride? O' course they can _ride_--we pay enough for 'aving 'em taught, don't we? But you mark my words, the People won't put up with this state of things much longer--keepin' a set of 'ired murderers in luxury and hidleness. I tell yer, wherever I come across one of these great lanky louts strutting about in his red coat, as if he was one of the lords of the hearth, well--it makes my nose bleed, ah--it _does_!

THE CHATTY MAN. If that's the way you talk to him, I ain't surprised if it do.

THE JUDGE. Sword _versus_ Sword! Come in there! (_Two mounted Combatants, in leather jerkins and black visors, armed with swordsticks, enter the ring_; JUDGE _introduces them to audience with the aid of a flag_.) Corporal JONES, of the Wessex Yeomanry; Sergeant SMITH, of the Manx Mounted Infantry. (_Their swords are chalked by the Assistants._) Are you ready? Left turn! Countermarch! Engage! (_The Combatants wheel round and face one another, each vigorously spurring his horse and prodding cautiously at the other; the two horses seem determined not to be drawn into the affair themselves on any account, and take no personal interest in the conflict; the umpires skip and dodge at the rear of the horses, until one of the Combatants gets in with a rattling blow on the other's head, to the intense delight of audience. Both men are brushed down, and their weapons re-chalked, whereupon they engage once more--much to the disgust of their horses, who had evidently been hoping it was all over. After the contest is finally decided, a second pair of Combatants_ _enter; one is mounted on a black horse, the other on a chestnut, who refuses to lend himself to the business on any terms, and bolts on principle; while the rider of the black horse remains in stationary meditation._) Go on--that black horse--go on! (_The chestnut is at length brought up to the scratch snorting, but again flinches, and retires with his rider._)

THE CROWD (_to rider of black horse_). Go on, now's your chance! 'It him! (_The recipient of these counsels pursues his antagonist, and belabours him and his horse with impartial good-will until separated by the Umpires, who examine the chalk-marks with a professional scrutiny._)

THE JUDGE. Here, you on the black horse, you mustn't hit that other horse about the head. (_The man addressed appears rebuked and surprised under his black-wired visor._) THE JUDGE (_reassuringly_). It's all _right_, you know; only, don't do it again, that's all! (_The Combatant sits up again._)

THE GUSHING LADY. Oh, I can't bear to look on, really. I'm _sure_ they oughtn't to hit so hard--_how_ their poor dear heads must ache! Isn't that chestnut a _duck_? I'm sure he's trying to save his master from getting hurt--they're such sensible creatures, horses are! (_Artillery teams drive in, and gallop between the posts; the Crowd going frantic with delight when the posts remain upright, and roaring with laughter when one is knocked over._)

DURING THE MUSICAL RIDE.

THE GUSHING LADY. Oh, they're simply too _sweet_! How those horses are enjoying it--aren't they pets? and how perfectly they keep step to the music, don't they?

HER FRIEND. (_who is beginning to get a trifle tired by her enthusiasm_). Yes; but then they're all trained by Madame Katti Lanner, of Drury Lane, you see.

THE GUSHING LADY. What pains she must have taken with them; but you can teach a horse _anything_, can't you?

HER FRIEND. Oh, that's nothing; next year they're going to have a horse who'll dance the Highland Fling.

THE SOCIALIST. A pretty sight? Cost a pretty sight o' the People's money, I know that. Tomfoolery, that's what it is; a set of dressed-up bullies dancin' quadrilles on 'orseback; _that_ ain't military manoeuvrin'. It's sickenin' the way fools applaud such goin's on. And cuttin' off the Saracen's 'ed, too; I'd call it plucky if the Saracen 'ad a gun in his 'and. Bah, I 'ate the 'ole business!

HIS NEIGHBOUR. Got anybody along with you, Mate?

THE SOCIALIST. No, I don't want anybody along with _me_, I don't.

HIS NEIGHBOUR. That's a pity, that is. A sweet-tempered, pleasant-spoken party like you are oughtn't to go about by yourself. You ought to bring somebody just to enjoy your conversation. There don't seem to be anybody _'ere_ of your way of thinkin'.

DURING THE COMBINED DISPLAY.

THE GUSHING LADY (_as the Cyclist Corps enter_). Oh, they've got a _dog_ with them. Do look--such a dear! See, they've tied a letter round his neck. He'll come back with an answer presently. (_But, there being apparently no answer to this communication, the faithful but prudent animal does not re-appear._)

AFTER THE PERFORMANCE.

THE INQUISITIVE CHILD. Uncle, which side won?

UNCLE. I suppose the side that advanced across the bridges.

CHILD. Which side _would_ have won if it had been a _real_ battle?

UNCLE. I really couldn't undertake to say, my boy.

CHILD. But which do you _think_ would have won?

UNCLE. I suppose the side that fought best.

CHILD. But which side was _that_? (_The_ Uncle _begins to find that the society of an intelligent Nephew entails too severe a mental strain to be frequently cultivated_.)

Free Speech

SCENE--_An Open Space. Rain falling in torrents. An Indignation Meeting is being held to protest against the Royal Grants. The Chairman presides at a small portable reading-desk, generally alluded to as The "Nostrum"; a ring of more or less Earnest Radicals, under umbrellas, surround him. Speakers address the Meeting in rapid succession; a Man with a red flag gives it a sinister wave at any particularly vigorous expression. Her Gracious Majesty the Queen is repeatedly described as "this mis-rubble ole bein'," an Archbishop is invariably mentioned as an "Arch-rogue," while the orators and the audience appear from their remarks to be the only persons capable of worthily guiding this unhappy Country's destinies. Policemen in couples look on from a distance and smile indulgently._

AN ORATOR (_bitterly_). The weather is against us, Feller Republikins, there's no denyin' that. As we were tramping along 'ere, through the mud and in the rain, wet to the skin, I couldn't 'elp remarking to a friend o' mine, that if it had been a pidging-shootin' match at Urlingham, or a Race-meeting at Hascot, things 'ud ha' been diff'rent! Ther'd ha' bin blue sky and sunshine enough _then_. Well, I 'spose hany weather's considered good enough for the likes of hus! Hany weather'll do for pore downtrod slaves to assert their man'ood and their hindependence in! (_Cries of "Shame!"_) Never you mind--hour turn'll come some day! We sha'n't _halways_ be 'eld down, and muzzled, and silenced, and prevented uttering the hindignation we've a right to feel! (_Bellowing._) We shall make our vices 'eard one day! But I'm reminded by my friend as I've got to keep to the pint. Well (_he composes his features into a sneer_) I'm told as 'ow 'Er Most Gracious Madjesty--(_"Booing" from Earnest Radicals_)--'Er Most Gracious Madjesty--'as she calls 'erself--'as put by a little matter of a millum an' a 'arf--since she came to the Throne. Now, Feller Republikins, that millum an' a 'arf 'as come out of _your_ pockets!

SEVERAL PERSONS (_who do not look as if they paid a heavy income tax_). 'Ear 'ear!

ORATOR. Yes, it belongs to the People--ah! and you've a legal right to demand it back--a legal _right_! And I arsk you--if that millum and a 'arf of money was to be divided among the Toilers of London ter-morrow--'ow many Hunemployed should we see? (_Crowd deeply impressed by this forcible argument._) Yet we're arst to put our 'ands in our pockets to support the Queen's children!

A GENTLEMAN WITH VERY SHORT HAIR. Shame--never! [_Puts his hand in somebody else's pocket by way of emphasising his declaration._]

ORATOR. Feller Republikins, if a Queen don't do the work as she's paid for doin' of, what ought to be done with 'er? I put it to _you_!

A VERY EARNEST RADICAL. The Scaffild!

[_Looks round nervously to see if a Policeman is within hearing._

A FAT LADY (_who has been ejaculating. "Oh, it is a shime, it is!" at every fresh instance of Royal expenditure_). Well, I must say that's _rather_ strong langwidge!

ANOTHER ORATOR. Gentlemen, I regret to say that, on this monstrous fraud and attempted imposition known as "The Royal Grants Bill," Mr. Gladstone voted with the Government. [_Frantic applause._

ORATOR (_puzzled_). Yes, Gentlemen, I am here to state facts, and I am ashamed to say, that on this single occasion Mr. Gladstone--went wrong. [_Shouts of "No! No!"_

A FERVID GLADSTONIAN (_waving his umbrella_). Three cheers for Mr. Gladstone, what-_hever_ he does!

[_The_ CROWD _join in heartily_; ORATOR _decides to drop the
point, particularly as it does not seem to affect the Meeting's
condemnation of the principle of the Bill_.

AN IRISH PATRIOT. I've often harrd tell, Gintlemen, of a certain stra-ange animal they carl a "Conservative Warkin-Man" (_Roars of_ _laughter_). A Warkin-Man a Conservative! Why, bliss me sowl, the thing's absurd! There niver _was_ such a purrson in this Warld. A Conservative Warkin-Man! why--(_takes refuge in profanity_). If there was why don't we iver hear 'um in an assimbly of this sort? Why hasn't he the common manly courage to come forward and defind his opinions? _We'd_ hear 'um, Gintlemen. It's the proud boast of Radicals and Republikins that they'd give free speech and a fair hearin' to ivery man, no matter hwhat his opinions are, but ye'll niver see 'um stip farward at ahl--and hwhy?

A DECENT MECHANIC. Well, look 'ere, mate, _I'm_ a Conservative Working-Man, if ye'd like to know, and I ain't afraid to defend my opinions. Come now!

THE CHAIRMAN (_somewhat taken aback_). Well, Friends, while I conduct this chair, I can promise this man a puffickly fair 'earin', and I'm sure you will listen to him patiently, whatever you may think of his arguments. (_Cries of 'Ear--'ear! "Fair play hall the world hover!" "We'll listen to him quiet enough!"_) First of all, I must be satisfied that our Friend is what he professes to be. We want no Sham Workin'-men _'ere_. [_Brandishes a foot-rule in evidence of the genuineness of his own claims._

THE D. M. Am I a workin'-man? Well, I've made ladies' boots at sixpence an hour for three years--d'ye call that bein' a Workin' Man? I've soled and 'eeled while you wait in a stall near Southwark Bridge seven years an' a arf! Praps you'll call _that_ a Workin'-Man? (_Cries of "Keep to the Point!"_) Oh, I'll keep to the point right enough. There's this Irishman here been a tellin' of you 'ow wrong it is to turn his countrymen out of their 'ouses when they don't pay their rent. Ain't _we_ turned out of our 'ouses, if we don't pay ourn? 'Oo snivels over _hus_?

THE I. P. No personalities now! It's my belief ye're a Landlord yerself! [_Uproar._

THE D. M. I _told_ yer ye wouldn't 'ear me now!

A SOCIALIST (_in a stentorian voice_). Feller Demmercrats, as an ex-Fenian and an ex-Convict, I implore you--give this man a hearin'!

THE D. M. Then about this Royal Grant. (_Cries of "Shut up!" "Go 'ome!" "Don't tork nonsense!"_) If you're going to 'ave a King and Queen at all--(_Cries of "We ain't! Down with 'em!"_) Ah, then I s'pose you're going to put up fellers like 'im (_pointing to the Socialist_), and 'im (_pointing to Chairman_), and 'im! [_Uproar._

THE SOCIALIST. Fellow-Citizens, I appeal to you, give this man rope--he's doing our work splendidly!

THE D. M. Well, all I've got to say is----(_Shouts of "Get down!" Yells and booing_). Oh, you won't tire me out that way. All _I_ can say is, I'd a precious sight rather----

THE CHAIRMAN (_excitedly_). Fellow citizens, we've listened to this man long enough--these sentiments are an insult to the meeting!

[_Yells as before._

THE SOCIALIST (_extending a billycock hat with a passionate gesture_). Feller Demmercrats, if you are earnest, if you are sincere in the indignation, the just hindignation, this man provokes--show it now, by putting money in this 'at for the Plan o' Campaign! [_The storm lulls._

THE D. M. (_resuming_). I arsk every honest man here whether----

_Chairman_ (_interposing_). I think, as our friend here don't seem able to keep to his point, we won't call upon him for any further remarks.

[THE D. M. _is hustled down, amidst derisive cheers and groans;
the_ SOCIALIST _ascends the Platform_.

THE SOCIALIST. I don't mind tellin' yer, friends and feller citizens, that in the late election in Heast Marylebone, I used all my influence--(_cheers_)--all _my_ influence to deter men from voting for your Radical candidate. (_Sensation, and a cry of "More shame for yer!"_) Ah, I _did_, though, and I'd do it agin, and I'll tell yer for why. I 'ate yer Tories, but if I'm to be 'it a blow in the face, I don't like it done behind my back. (_Cheers_). And your precious Liberals and Radicals, they're worse nor hany Tories, and for this reason--(_with a penetrating glance_)--they're more hinvidious! Ah, that's it, they're more _hinvidious_! Traitors, hevery man jack of 'em!

[_And so on, concluding with denunciations of all "sending
round the 'at," and appeals for contributions to the Plan of
Campaign. Meeting dissolves with three cheers for the coming
Republic from the victims of a Tyrannous System of Repression
of Opinion._

The Riding-Class.

SCENE--_A Riding-school, on a raw chilly afternoon. The gas is
lighted, but does not lend much cheerfulness to the interior,
which is bare and bleak, and pervaded by a bluish haze. Members
of the Class discovered standing about on the tan, waiting for
their horses to be brought in. At the further end is an alcove,
with a small balcony, in which_ MRS. BILBOW-KAY, _the Mother of
one of the Equestrians, is seated with a young female Friend_.

MRS. BILBOW-KAY. Oh, Robert used to ride very nicely indeed when he was a boy; but he has been out of practice lately, and so, as the Doctor ordered him horse-exercise, I thought it would be wiser for him to take a few lessons. Such an excellent change for any one with sedentary pursuits!

THE FRIEND. But isn't riding a sedentary pursuit, too?

MRS. B.-K. Robert says _he_ doesn't find it so.

[_Enter the_ RIDING MASTER.

RIDING MASTER (_saluting with cane_). Evenin', Gentlemen--your 'orses will be in directly; 'ope we shall see some _ridin'_ this time. (_Clatter without; enter Stablemen with horses._) Let me see--Mr. Bilbow-Kay, Sir, you'd better ride the _Shar_; he ain't been out all day, so he'll want some 'andling. (Mr. B.-K., _with a sickly smile, accepts a tall and lively horse_.) No, Mr. Tongs, that ain't _your_ 'orse to-day--you've got beyond _'im_, Sir. We'll put you up on _Lady Loo_; she's a bit rough till you get on terms with her, but you'll be all right on her after a bit. Yes, Mr. Joggles, Sir, you take _Kangaroo_, please. Mr. Bumpas, I've 'ad the _Artful Dodger_ out for you; and mind he don't get rid of you so easy as he did Mr. Gripper last time. Got a nice 'orse for _you_, Mr. 'Arry Sniggers, Sir--_Frar Diavolo_. You mustn't take no notice of his bucking a bit at starting--he'll soon leave it off.

MR. SNIGGERS (_who conceals his qualms under a forced facetiousness_). Soon leave _me_ off you mean!

R. M. (_after distributing the remaining horses_). Now then--bring your 'orses up into line, and stand by, ready to mount at the word of command, reins taken up in the left 'and with the second and little fingers, and a lock of the 'orse's mane twisted round the first. Mount! That 'orse ain't a _bicycle_, Mr. Sniggers. [Mr. S. (_in an undertone_). No--worse luck!] Number off! Walk! I shall give the word to trot directly, so now's the time to improve your seats--that back a bit straighter, Mr. 'Ooper. No. 4 just fall out, and we'll let them stirrup-leathers down another 'ole or two for yer. (_No. 4, who has just been congratulating himself that his stirrups were conveniently high, has to see them let down to a distance where he can just touch them by stretching._) Now you're all comfortable. ["Oh, _are_ we?" _from_ MR. S.] Trot! Mr. Tongs, Sir, 'old that 'orse in--he's gettin' away with you already. Very bad, Mr. Joggles, Sir--keep those 'eels down! Lost your stirrup, Mr. Jelly? Never mind that--_feel_ for it, Sir. I want you to be independent of the irons. I'm going to make you ride without 'em presently. (Mr. Jelly _shivers in his saddle_.) Captin' Cropper, Sir; if that Volunteer ridgment as you're goin' to be the Major of sees you like you are now, on a field-day--they'll 'ave to fall out to _larf_, Sir! (Mr. Cropper _devoutly wishes he had been less ingenuous as to his motive for practising his riding_.) Now, Mr. Sniggers, make that 'orse learn 'oo's the master! [Mr. S. "He _knows_, the brute!"]

MRS. B.-K. He's very rude to all the Class, except dear Robert--but then Robert has such a nice easy seat.

THE R. M. Mr. Bilbow-Kay, Sir, try and set a bit closer. Why, you ain't no more 'old on that saddle than a stamp with the gum licked off! Can-ter! _You're_, all right, Mr. Joggles--it's on'y his play; set down on your saddle, Sir!... I didn't say on the ground!

MRS. B.-K. (_anxiously to her_ SON, _as he passes_). Bob, are you quite sure you're safe? (_To_ FRIEND.) His horse is snorting so dreadfully!

R. M. 'Alt! Every Gentleman take his feet out of the stirrups, and cross them on the saddle in front of him. Not your _feet_, Mr. Sniggers, we ain't Turks 'ere!

MR. S. (_sotto voce_). "There's _one_ bloomin' Turk 'ere, anyway!"

R. M. Now then--Walk!... Trot! Set back, Gentlemen, set back all--'old on by your knees, not the pommels. _I_ see you, Mr. Jelly, kitchin' old o' the mane--I shall 'ave to give you a 'ogged 'orse next time you come. Quicken up a bit--this is a ride, not a funeral. Why, I could _roll_ faster than you're trotting! Lor, you're like a row o' Guy Foxes on 'orseback, you are! Ah, I thought I'd see one o' you orf! Goa-ron, all o' you, you don't come 'ere to _play_ at ridin'--I'll make you ride afore I've done with you! 'Ullo, Mr. Joggles, nearly gone that time, Sir! There, that'll do--or we'll 'ave all your saddles to let unfurnished. Wa--alk! Mr. Bilbow-Kay, when your 'orse changes his pace sudden, it don't look well for you to be found settin' 'arf way up his neck, and it gives him a bad opinion of yer, Sir. Uncross stirrups! Trot on! It ain't no mortal use your clucking to that mare, Mr. Tongs, Sir, because she don't understand the langwidge--touch her with your 'eel in the ribs. Mr. Sniggers, that 'orse is doin' jest what he likes with you. 'It 'im, Sir; he's no friends and few relations!

MR. S. (_with spirit_). _I_ ain't going to 'it 'im. If you want him 'it, get up and do it yourself!

R. M. When I say "Circle Right"--odd numbers'll wheel round and fall in be'ind even ones. Circle _Right_!... Well, if ever I--I didn't tell yer to fall _off_ be'ind. Ketch your 'orses and stick to 'em next time. Right In-_cline_! O' course, Mr. Joggles, if you prefer takin' that animal for a little ride all by himself we'll let you out in the streets--otherwise p'raps you'll kindly follow yer leader. Captain Cropper, Sir, if you let that curb out a bit more, _Reindeer_ wouldn't be 'arf so narsty with yer.... Ah, now you _'ave_ done it. You want _your_ reins painted different colours and labelled, Sir, you do. 'Alt, the rest of you.... Now, seein' you're shook down in your saddles a bit--["_Shook_ up'_s_ _more like it_!" _from_ Mr. S.]--we'll 'ave the 'urdles in and show you a bit o' Donnybrook! (_The Class endeavours to assume an air of delighted anticipation at this pleasing prospect._) _To_ Assistant R. M., (_who has entered and said something in an undertone_.) Eh, Captin' 'Edstall here, and wants to try the grey cob over 'urdles? Ask him if he'll come in now--we're just going to do some jumping.

ASSIST. R. M. This lot don't look much like going over 'urdles--'cept in front o' the 'orse, but I'll tell the Captain.

[_The hurdles are brought in and propped up._ _Enter a well-turned-out_ STRANGER, _on a grey cob_.

MR. SNIGGERS (_to him_). You ain't lost nothing by coming late, I can tell yer. We've bin having a gay old time in 'ere--made us ride without sterrups, he did!

CAPTAIN HEADSTALL. Haw, really? Didn't get grassed, did you?

MR. S. Well, me and my 'orse separated by mutual consent. I ain't what you call a fancy 'orseman. We've got to go at that 'urdle in a minute. How do _you_ like the ideer, eh? It's no good funking it--it's got to be _done_!

R. M. Now, Captin--not _you_, Captin Cropper--Captin 'Edstall _I_ mean, will you show them the way over, please?

[CAPTAIN H. _rides at it_; _the cob jumps too short, and knocks the hurdle down--to his rider's intense disgust_.

MR. S. I say, Guvnor, that was a near thing. I wonder you weren't off.

CAPT. H. I--ah--don't often come off.

MR. S. You won't say that when you've been 'ere a few times. You see, they've put you on a quiet animal this journey. _I_ shall try to get him myself next time. He be'aves like a gentleman, _he_ does.

CAPT. H. You won't mount him, if you take my advice--he has rather a delicate mouth.

MR. S. Oh, I don't mind that--I should ride him on the curb o' course.

[_The Class ride at the hurdle one by one._

R. M. Now, Mr. Sniggers, give 'im more of 'is 'ed than that, Sir--or he'll take it.... Oh, Lor, well, it's soft falling luckily! Mr. Joggles, Sir, keep him back till you're in a line with it.... Better, Sir; you come down true on your saddle afterwards anyway!... Mr. Parabole!... Ah, _would_ you? _Told_ you he was tricky, Sir! Try him at it again.... Now--over!... Yes, and it is over, and no mistake!

MRS. B.-K. Now it's Robert's turn. I'm afraid he's been overtiring himself, he looks so pale. Bob, you won't let him jump too high, _will_ you?--Oh, I daren't look. Tell me, my love,--is he _safe_?

HER FRIEND. Perfectly--they're just brushing him down.

AFTERWARDS.

MRS. B.-K. (_to her_ SON). Oh, Bob, you must never think of jumping again--it _is_ such a dangerous amusement!

ROBERT (_who has been cursing the hour in which he informed his parent of the exact whereabouts of the school_). It's all right with a horse that knows _how_ to jump. Mine didn't.

THE FRIEND. I _thought_ you seemed to jump a good deal higher than the horse did. They ought to be trained to keep close under you, oughtn't they? [ROBERT _wonders if she is as guileless as she looks_.]

CAPT. CROPPER (_to the_ R. M.) Oh, takes about eight months, with a lesson every day, to make a man efficient in the Cavalry, does it? But, look here--I suppose four more lessons will put _me_ all right, eh? I've had _eight_, y' know.

R. M. Well, Sir, if you _arsk_ me, I dunno as another arf dozen 'll do you any 'arm--but, o'course, that's just as _you_ feel about it.

[CAPTAIN CROPPER _endeavours to extract encouragement from this Delphic response_.]

The Impromptu Charade-Party.

SCENE--_The Library of a Country-House; the tables and chairs
are heaped with brocades, draperies, and properties of all
kinds, which the Ladies of the company are trying on, while the
men rack their brains for a suitable Word._ _In a secluded
corner_, MR. NIGHTINGALE _and_ MISS ROSE _are conversing in
whispers_.

MR. WHIPSTER (_Stage-Manager and Organizer--self-appointed_). No--but I say, _really_, you know, we _must_ try and decide on something--we've been out half-an-hour, and the people will be getting impatient! (_To the Ladies._) Do come and help; it's really no use dressing up till we've settled what we're going _to do_. Can't _anybody_ think of a good Word?

MISS LARKSPUR. We ought to make a continuous story of it, with the same plot and characters all through. We did that once at the Grange, and it was awfully good--just like a regular Comedy!

MR. WHIPSTER. Ah, but we've got to hit on _a Word_ first. Come--nobody got an idea? Nightingale, you're not much use over _there_, you know. I hope you and Miss Rose have been putting your heads together?

MR. NIGHTINGALE (_confused_). Eh? No, nothing of the sort! Oh, ah--yes, we've thought of a _lot_ of Words.

MISS ROSE. Only you've driven them all out of our heads again!

[_They resume their conversation._

MR. WH. Well, do make a suggestion, somebody! Professor, won't _you_ give us a Word?

CHORUS OF LADIES. Oh, _do_, Professor--you're sure to think of something clever!

PROFESSOR POLLEN (_modestly_). Well, really, I've so little experience in these matters that--A Word _has_ just occurred to me, however; I don't know, of course, whether it will meet with approval--(_he beams at them with modest pride through his spectacles_)--it's "Monocotyledonous."

CHORUS OF LADIES. Charming! Monocottle--Oh, can't we _do_ that?

MR. WH. (_dubiously_). We might--but--er--what's it _mean_?

PROF. POLLEN. It's a simple botanical term, signifying a plant which has only one cup-shaped leaf, or seed-lobe. Plants with _two_ are termed--

MR. WH. I don't see how we're going to act a plant with only one seed-lobe myself--and then the syllables--"mon"--"oh"--"cot"--"till"--we shouldn't get done before _midnight_, you know!

PROF. POLLEN (_with mild pique_). Well, I merely threw it out as a suggestion. I thought it could have been made amusing. No doubt I was wrong; no doubt.

MR. SETTEE (_nervously_). I've thought of a word. How would--er--"_Familiar_" do?

MR. WH. (_severely_). Now, _really_, Settee, _do_ try not to footle like this!

[MR. SETTEE _subsides amidst general disapproval_.

MR. FLINDERS (_with a flash of genius_). I've got it--_Gamboge_!

MR. WH. Gamboge, eh? Let's see how that would work:--"Gam"-"booge." How do you see it yourself?

[MR. FLINDERS _discovers on reflection, that he doesn't see it, and the suggestion is allowed to drop_.

MISS PELAGIA RHYS. _I've_ an idea. _Familiar!_ "Fame"-"ill"-"liar," you know.

[_Chorus of applause._

MR. WH. Capital! The very thing--congratulate you, Miss Rhys!

MR. SETTEE (_sotto voce_). But I say, look here, _I_ suggested that, you know, and you said--!

MR. WH. (_ditto_). What on earth _does_ it matter who suggests it, so long as it's right? Don't be an ass, Settee! (_Aloud._) How are we going to do the first syllable "Fame," eh? [MR. SETTEE _sulks_.

MR. PUSHINGTON. Oh, that's easy. One of us must come on as a Poet, and all the ladies must crowd round flattering him, and making a lot of him, asking him for his autograph, and so on. I don't mind doing the Poet myself, if nobody else feels up to it.

[_He begins to dress for the part by turning his dress-coat inside out, and putting on a turban and a Liberty sash, by way of indicating the eccentricity of genius; the Ladies adorn themselves with a similar regard to realism, and even more care for appearances._

AFTER THE FIRST SYLLABLE.

_The Performers return from the drawing-room, followed by faint applause._

MR. PUSHINGTON. Went capitally, that syllable, eh? (_No response._) You might have played up to me a little more than you did--you others. You let me do everything!

MISS LARKSPUR. You never let any of us get a word in!

MR. PUSHINGTON. Because you all talked at once, that was all. Now then--"ill." I'll be a celebrated Doctor, and you all come to me one by one, and say you're _ill_--see?

[_Attires himself for the role of a Physician in a dressing-gown and an old yeomanry helmet._

MR. WHIPSTER (_huffily_). Seems to me I may as well go and sit with the audience--I'm no use _here_!

MR. PUSHINGTON. Oh, yes, Whipster, I want you to be my confidential butler, and show the patients in.

[MR. W. _accepts--with a view to showing_ PUSHINGTON _that other people can act as well as he_.

AFTER THE SECOND SYLLABLE.

MR. PUSHINGTON. Seemed to _drag_ a little, somehow! There was no necessity for you to make all those long soliloquies, Whipster. A Doctor's confidential servant wouldn't chatter so much!

MR. WHIPSTER. You were so confoundedly solemn over it, I had to put some fun in _somewhere_!

MR. P. Well, you might have put it where some one could see it. Nobody laughed.

PROFESSOR POLLEN. I don't know, Mr. Pushington, why, when I was describing my symptoms--which I can vouch for as scientifically correct--you persisted in kicking my legs under the table--it was unprofessional, Sir, and extremely painful!

MR. PUSHINGTON. I was only trying to hint to you that as there were a dozen other people to follow, it was time you cut the interview short, Professor--that one syllable alone has taken nearly an hour.

MISS BUCKRAM. If I had known the kind of questions you were going to ask me, Mr. Pushington, I should certainly not have exposed myself to them. I say no more, but I must positively decline to appear with you again.

MR. PUSHINGTON. Oh, but really, you know, in Charades one gets carried away at times. I assure you, I hadn't the remotest (_&c, &c._--_until_ Miss Buckram _is partly mollified_.) Now then--last syllable. Look here, I'll be a regular impostor, don't you know, and all of you come on and say what a _liar_ I am. We ought to make that screamingly funny!

AFTER THE THIRD SYLLABLE.

MR. PUSHINGTON. Muddled? Of _course_ it was muddled--you all called me a liar before I opened my mouth!

THE REST. But you didn't seem to know how to begin, and we _had_ to bring the Word in somehow.

PUSHINGTON. Bring it in?--but you needn't have let it _out_. There was Settee there, shouting "liar" till he was black in the face. We must have looked a set of idiots from the front. I sha'n't go in again (_muttering_). It's no use acting Charades with people who don't understand it. There; settle the Word yourselves!

AFTER THE WORD. AMONG THE AUDIENCE.

GENERAL MURMUR. What _can_ it be? Not _Turk_, I suppose, or Magician?--Quarrelling?--Parnellite--Impertinence? Shall we give it up? No, they like us to guess, poor things; and besides, if we don't they'll do another; and it is getting _so_ late, and such a _long_ drive home. Oh, they're all coming back; then it _is_ over. No, indeed, we can't _imagine_. "_Familiar!_" To be sure--_how_ clever, and _how_ well you all acted it, to be sure--you must be quite tired after it all. I am sure _we_--hem--are deeply indebted to you.... My dear Miss Rose, how wonderfully you disguised yourself, I never recognized you a bit, nor _you_, Mr. Nightingale. What part did _you_ take?

MR. NIGHTINGALE. I--er--didn't take any particular part--wasn't wanted, you know.

MISS ROSE. Not to _act_,--so we stayed outside and--and--arranged things.

AN OLD LADY. Indeed? Then you had all the hard work, and none of the pleasure, my dear, I'm afraid.

MISS ROSE (_sweetly_). Oh no. I mean yes!--but we didn't _mind_ it much.

THE O. L. And which of you settled what the Word was to be?

MR. N. Well, I believe we settled that together.

[_Carriages are announced; departure of guests who are not of the house-party. In the Smoking-room_, MR. PUSHINGTON _discovers that he does not seem exactly popular with the other men, and puts it down to jealousy_.

A Christmas Romp.

SCENE--MRS. CHIPPERFIELD'S _Drawing-room_. _It is after the
Christmas dinner, and the Gentlemen have not yet appeared._
MRS. C. _is laboriously attempting to be gracious to her
Brother's Fiancee, whose acquaintance she has made for the
first time, and with whom she is disappointed_. _Married
Sisters and Maiden Aunts confer in corners with a sleepy
acidity._

FIRST MARRIED SISTER (_to Second_). I felt quite sorry for Fred, to see him sitting there, looking--and no wonder--so ashamed of himself--but I always will say, and I always _must_ say, Caroline, that if you and Robert had been _firmer_ with him when he was younger, he would never have turned out so badly! Now, there's my George--&c., &c.

MRS. C. (_to the Fiancee_). Well, my dear, I don't approve of young men getting engaged until they have some prospect of being able to marry, and dear Algy was always my favourite brother, and I've seen so much misery from long engagements. However, we must hope for the best, that's all!

A MAIDEN AUNT (_to Second Ditto_). Exactly what struck _me_, Martha. _One_ waiter would have been quite sufficient, and if James _must_ be grand and give champagne, he might have given us a little _more_ of it; I'm sure I'd little else but foam in _my_ glass! And every plate as cold as a stone, and you and I the only people who were not considered worthy of silver forks, and the children encouraged to behave as they please, and Joseph Podmore made such a fuss with, because he's well off--and not enough sweetbread to go the round. Ah, well, thank goodness, we needn't dine here for another year!

MR. CHIPPERFIELD (_at the door_). Sorry to cut you short in your cigar, Uncle, and you, Limpett; but fact is, being Christmas night, I thought we'd come up a little sooner and all have a bit of a romp.... Well, Emily, my dear, here we are, all of us--ready for anything in the way of a frolic--what's it to be? Forfeits, games, Puss in the Corner, something to cheer us all up, eh? Won't any one make a suggestion?

[_General expression of gloomy blankness._

ALGERNON (_to his Fiancee--whom he wants to see shine_). Zeffie, you know no end of games--what's that one you played at home, with potatoes and a salt-spoon, _you_ know?

ZEFFIE (_blushing_). No, _please_, Algy! I don't know _any_ games, indeed, I couldn't _really_!

MR. C. Uncle Joseph will set us going, I'm sure--what do _you_ say, Uncle?

UNCLE JOSEPH. Well, I won't say "no" to a quiet rubber.

MRS. C. But, you see, we can't _all_ play in that, and there _is_ a pack of cards in the house somewhere; but I know two of the aces are gone, and I don't think all the court cards were there the last time we played. Still, if you can manage with what is left, we might get up a game for you.

UNCLE J. (_grimly_). Thank you, my dear, but, on the whole, I think I would almost rather romp--

MR. C. Uncle Joseph votes for romping! What do you say to Dumb Crambo? Great fun--half of us go out, and come in on all-fours, to rhyme to "cat," or "bat," or something--_you_ can play that, Limpett?

MR. LIMPETT. If I _must_ find a rhyme to cat, I prefer, so soon after dinner, not to go on all-fours for it, I confess.

MR. C. Well, let's have something quieter, then--only _do_ settle. Musical Chairs, eh?

ALGY. Zeffie will play the piano for you--she plays beautifully.

ZEFFIE. Not without notes, Algy, and I forgot to bring my music with me. Shall we play "Consequences"? It's a very quiet game--you play it sitting down, with paper and pencil, you know!

MR. LIMPETT (_sardonically, and sotto voce_). Ah, this is something _like_ a rollick now. "Consequences," eh?

ALGY (_who has overheard--in a savage undertone_). If that isn't good enough for you, suggest something better--or shut up!

[MR. L. _prefers the latter alternative_.

MR. C. Now, then, have you given everybody a piece of paper, Emily? Caroline, you're going to play--we can't leave _you_ out of it.

AUNT CAROLINE. No, James, I'd rather look on, and see you all enjoying yourselves--I've _no_ animal spirits now!

MR. C. Oh, nonsense! Christmas-time, you know. Let's be jolly while we can--give her a pencil, Emily!

AUNT C. No, I can't, really. You must excuse me. I know I'm a wet blanket; but, when I think that I mayn't be with you another Christmas, we may _most_ of us be dead by then, why--(_sobs_).

FRED (_the Family Failure_). That's right, Mater--trust you to see the humorous side of everything!

ANOTHER AUNT. For shame, Fred! If you don't know who is responsible for your poor mother's low spirits, others do!

[_The Family Failure collapses_

MR. LIMPETT. Well, as we've all got pencils, is there any reason why the revelry should not commence?

MR. C. No--don't let's waste any more time. Miss Zeffie says she will write down on the top of her paper "Who met whom" (must be a Lady and Gentleman in the party, you know), then she folds it down, and passes it on to the next, who writes, "What he said to her"--the next, "What she said to him"--next, "What the consequences were," and the last, "What the world said." Capital game--first-rate. Now, then!

[_The whole party pass papers in silence from one to another, and scribble industriously with knitted brows._

MR. C. Time's up, all of you. I'll read the first paper aloud. (_Glances at it, and explodes._) He-he!--this is really very funny. (_Reads._) "Uncle Joseph met Aunt Caroline at the--ho--ho!--the Empire! He said to her, '_What are the wild waves saying!_' and she said to him, 'It's time you were taken away!' The consequences were that they both went and had their hair cut, and the world said they had always suspected there was something between them!"

UNCLE J. I consider that a piece of confounded impertinence!

[_Puffs._

AUNT C. It's not true. I _never_ met Joseph at the Empire. I don't go to such places. I _didn't_ think I should be insulted like this--(_Weeps_)--on Christmas too!

AUNTS' CHORUS. Fred _again_!

[_They regard the_ FAMILY FAILURE _indignantly_.

MR. C. There, there, it was all fun--no harm meant. I'll read the next. "Mr. Limpett met Miss Zeffie in the Burlington Arcade. He said to her, 'O, you little duck!' She said to him, 'Fowls are cheap to-day!' The consequences were that they never smiled again, and the world said, 'What price hot potatoes?'" (_Everybody looks depressed._) H'm--not bad--but I think we'll play something else now.

[ZEFFIE _perceives that_ ALGY _is not pleased with her_.

TOMMY (_to_ UNCLE JOSEPH). Uncle, why didn't _you_ carve at dinner?

UNCLE J. Well, Tommy, because the carving was done at a side table--and uncommon badly done, too. Why do you want to know?

TOMMY. Parpar thought you _would_ carve, I know. He told Mummy she must ask you, because--

MRS. C. (_with a prophetic instinct_). Now, Tommy, you mustn't tease your Uncle. Come away, and tell your new Aunt Zeffie what you're going to do with your Christmas boxes.

TOMMY. But mayn't I tell him what Parpar said, first?

MRS. C. No, no; by and by--not now! [_She averts the danger._

[_Later; the Company are playing "Hide the Thimble"; i.e., someone has planted that article in a place so conspicuous that few would expect to find it there. As each person catches sight of it, he or she sits down._ UNCLE JOSEPH _is still, to the general merriment, wandering about and getting angrier every moment_.

MR. C. That's it, Uncle, you're _warm_--you're _getting_ warm!

UNCLE J. (_boiling over_). _Warm_, Sir? _I am_ warm--and something more, I can tell you! [_Sits down with a bump._

MR. C. You haven't _seen_ it! I'm sure you haven't seen it. Come now, Uncle!

UNCLE J. Never mind whether I have or have not. Perhaps I don't _want_ to see it, Sir!

THE CHILDREN. Then do you give it up? Do you want to be told? Why, it's staring you in the face all the time!

UNCLE J. I don't care whether it's staring or not--I don't want to be told anything more about it.

THE CHILDREN. Then you're _cheating_, Uncle--you must go on walking till you _do_ see it!

UNCLE J. Oh, that's it, eh? Very well, then--I'll walk!

[_Walks out, leaving the company paralysed._

MRS. C. Run after him, Tommy, and tell him--quick!

[_Exit_ TOMMY.

MR. C. (_feebly_). I think when Uncle Joseph does come back, we'd better try to think of some game he _can't_ lose his temper at. Ah, here's Tommy!

TOMMY. I _told_ him--but he went all the same, and slammed the door. He said I was to go back and tell you that you would find he _was_ cut up--and cut up rough, too!

MRS. C. But what did you tell _him_?

TOMMY. Why, only that Parpar asked him to come to-night because he was sure to cut up well. You said I might!