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"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?