PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOL. 147.

July 22, 1914.

CHARIVARIA.

Those who deny that Mr. Lloyd George is ruining land-owners will perhaps be impressed by the following advertisement in The Bazaar, Exchange and Mart:—

"To be sold, small holding, well stocked with fruit trees, good double tenement house on good road and close to station, good outer buildings. Price, Four Marks, Alton, Hunts."

The fact that the price should be translated into German looks unpleasantly like an attempt to entrap an ignorant foreigner.

Meanwhile it looks as if the Socialist ideal of driving our landed gentry into the workhouse is already being realised. The Abergavenny Board of Guardians, we read, has decided to accept an offer by Lord Abergavenny to purchase the local workhouse for £3,000.

Three of the new peers have now chosen their titles. Sir Edgar Vincent becomes Baron d'Abernon; Major-General Brocklehurst, Baron Ranksborough, and Sir Edward Lyell, Baron Lyell. Rather lazy of Sir Edward.

A lioness which escaped from a circus at Bourg-en-Brasse, France, the other day, was killed, and a gendarme in the hunting party was shot in the leg. As the lioness was not armed it is thought that the gendarme must have been shot by one of the party.

It is frequently said that, if the Suffragettes were to drop their militant tactics, the suffrage would be granted to-morrow. A Suffragette now writes to stigmatise this as a hypocritical mis-statement. She points out that recently the experiment was tried of allowing an entire day to pass without an outrage, but not a single vote was granted.

Dr. Hans Friedenthal, a well-known Professor of Berlin University, declares that, as a result of the higher education, women will in the near future be totally bald, and will wear patriarchal beards and long moustaches. They will then, no doubt, get the vote by threatening that, unless their wishes are granted, they will kiss every man they meet at sight.

Portsmouth Town Council has carried, by eleven votes to nine, a Labour amendment refusing to place official guide-books to Pretoria in the public library unless the nine deportees are allowed to return to South Africa. General Botha could hardly have foreseen this result of his action, and it will be interesting to see what happens now.

"Poison after a Duck's Egg."
Evening News.

Our cricketers would seem to be getting absurdly sensitive. This is scarcely the way to brighten the game.

The Guildhall Art Gallery is to be rebuilt. Some of the pictures there might be at the same time re-painted with advantage.

Apparently the Moody of the Moody-Manners Opera Company is gaining the upper hand. This Company opened its London season with The Dance of Death.

The appearance in Bond Street last week of a lady leading a little pig instead of a dog as a pet is being widely discussed in canine circles, though it has not yet been decided what action, if any, shall be taken. In view of the fact that so many dogs are pigs it is possible that no objection will be raised to one pig being a dog.

By the way, The Daily Chronicle was not quite correct when, in describing the recent "Dog Feast," in which the Shepherds Bush Indians were alleged to have participated, it used the expression "pow-wow." Owing to the action of the Canine Defence League a sheep was roasted and not a pow-wow.

A motor-bus ran into a barber's shop in Gray's Inn Road last week, and three customers had a close shave.

Some burglars recently blew open with gelignite the safe of a Holborn jeweller containing £1,000 worth of gems, and, as the jewels are missing, the police incline to the view that the object of the men must have been robbery.

Asked by The Express for a suggestion for a motto for the L.C.C., Mr. H. de Vere Stacpoole sent the reply, "My word is sovereign." It is good to know that this delightful writer can command an even higher rate of pay than did Mr. Rudyard Kipling at the height of his popularity.

The Daily Herald informs us that the Russian monk, Rasputin, "started life as an illiterate peasant." But, we would ask, is there really anything remarkable in this? We believe that the number of persons who have been born literate is extremely small.

Says an advertisement in T.P.'s Weekly:—"Reader receives guests—Leigh-on-Sea, facing sea, minute cliffs." It is honourable of the advertiser to mention the minuteness of the cliffs. This is, we fear, a characteristic of the Essex coast.

Among "Businesses for Sale" in The Daily Chronicle, we come across what looks like an ugly example of military venality:—"General for Sale, taking £16 a week; going cheap."

Finally, we have the pleasure to award first honorary prize in our Pathetic Advertisement Competition to the following—also from The Daily Chronicle:—

"Fish (Fried) and Chips for Sale, owing to wife's illness: only one in neighbourhood."

We trust that the advertiser's addiction to monogamy is not confined to the neighbourhood.

We understand that, in view of the popular revival of boxing, Dr. Strauss has been commissioned to write a grand opera round the noble art. The above represents the finale.

OXFORD IN TRANSITION.

Interview With a Famous Porter.

(By Harold Begthwayt.)

Hearing from an undergraduate friend at Cardinal College of the impending retirement of Mr. Chumbleton ("Old Chum"), the famous porter of Salisbury Gate, I gladly seized the opportunity of running down to Oxford to gain some fresh sidelights on the inner life of the University. Cardinal College, unlike Balliol, Magdalen and New College, has never shown itself responsive to the new spirit. There are probably fewer Socialists in Peckover than in any other quad in Oxford. The old feudal traditions, though somewhat mitigated, still survive. You still hear the characteristic Mayfair accent and recognise a curious lack of that Moral Uplift without which, as Sir Robertson Nicoll finely says, a man is no better than a mummy. And yet I own to having been strangely attracted by these well-groomed scions of a vanishing breed, with their finely chiselled features, their clipped colloquialisms and their cheerful arrogance. There is something engaging as well as pathetic in these unruffled countenances, blind to the realities of modern life and the need of that fraternal fellowship which alone can bring peace to the head that wears a crown or a coronet.

Mr. Chumbleton, who was just going off duty when I arrived, cordially invited me into his inner sanctum and offered me a glass of gin and green Chartreuse, the favourite beverage, he assured me, of the late Duke of Midhurst, whose scout he had been in the "seventies." Of that strange and meteoric figure, who was subsequently devoured by a crocodile on the Blue Nile, Mr. Chumbleton spoke with genuine affection. "He was something like a Dook," said the old man, "and not one of your barley-water-drinking faddists. Yes, in those days a Dook was a Dook and not a cock-shy for demigods [? demagogues]. I can remember," he went on, "when there wore three Dooks in residence at the same time, the Dook of Midhurst, the Dook of St. Ives and the Dook of Clumber. But the Dook of Midhurst was the pick of the bunch. Why, once he went into a grocer's shop in the High and asked for two pounds of treacle. 'How will you have it?' asked the grocer, who was the baldest-headed man I ever seen. 'In my hat,' said the Dook, whipping off his bowler and holding it out. As soon as it was full, before you could say Jack Robinson, he popped it on the grocer's head and ran out of the shop."

The old man told this terrible story, which reminded me of the worst cruelties of the despots of the Italian Renaissance, with a gusto that was inexpressibly painful. When he had finished I asked whether the Duke was sent down. "Oh, no, Sir," was the prompt response. "You see the grocer, being a bald-headed man, had no trouble with the treacle, and, besides, the Dook he gave him a wig next day. But if anyone was to do that to-day, Dook or no Dook, there'd be questions asked about it in the House of Commons, or a Royal Commission would be appointed. Times is changed," he went on sadly, "and there ain't any more of the old stock left. Why, the Bullingdon Club got three First Classes this year, and as for breaking up furniture and bonfires in the quad it don't happen once in three years. 'Nuts' they call 'em now, but when I was a young scout they called 'em 'dogs,' and gay dogs they were, I can tell you. 'Bloods' they call 'em, too, but there ain't much blue blood in these modern Blutocrats."

I asked Mr. Chumbleton if there were any signs of Cardinal College being affected by the new Moral Uplift, but he seemed unable to fathom the meaning of my query. His standpoint was clearly philistine and, I regret to say, distinctly pagan. He had never heard of the Land Campaign, or of Mr. Hemmerde, Baron de Forest or even Mr. Harold Begbie. His attitude towards Mr. Lloyd George was unsympathetic. He deplored the popularity of motor-bicycles, but, with a strange and lamentable perversity, welcomed the advent of the motor-'bus while condemning the introduction of trams.

I came away more than ever impressed by the tenacity of feudal traditions, and the need of redoubled efforts on the part of all Radical stalwarts to convert the older universities from hotbeds of expensive obscurantism into free nurseries of humanitarian democracy. It was sad to see such a figure as that of Mr. Chumbleton, genial and hospitable, I admit, but utterly heedless of the trend of the times, hopelessly ignorant of the Progressive program, and deriving a senile satisfaction from memories of a barbarous and brutal past.

Painting the Lily.

"White duck trousers in a snow-white grey material."—Advt. in "Daily Province" (Vancouver).

From The Daily Mirror's account of the Smith-Carpentier fight:—

"One French girl was so excited that she bit a large hope in her fan."

Not a white hope, we trust.

THE SINECURE.

[In The Daily Mail's list of Situations Vacant, such as Housemaids (Hmds), Between-maids (Bmds), Working Housekeepers (Wkg-hkprs) and Cook Generals (Ckgns), appears the following:—"Young Lady wanted for cinema acting. Fullest particulars to Box No.—.">[

Said she, "The Daily Mail ensures

Immediate supply.

Whose situation's vacant? Yours.

Who's going to fill it? I.

"If you shall ask me, can I act?

I readily retort,

I'm just the Star you want; in fact

The strong and silent sort.

"The sooner you reveal the plot

The sooner I begin.

In me, I beg to state, you've got

The perfect Heroine."

Said they—"De Vere's a villain who

For reasons not disclosed

Desires to make an end of you ..."

("The cad!" she interposed).

" ... He ties you to a railway line

That so the Leeds express

May execute his fell design

With speed and thoroughness.

"But Herbert's heroism's such,

He swears this shall not be.

You see, he loves you very much ..."

("I guessed he would," said she).

" ... He hires a rapid motor car,

He also buys a map;

He knows how fast expresses are,

And notes the handicap.

"But, as he is a man of parts

And born to play the game,

Without delay the hero starts ..."

"We'd better do the same."

They chose a quiet neighbourhood,

A lonely piece of track;

They trusted that the metals would

Not incommode her back.

"This is De Vere," they said, "whose hand

Will tie you firmly down.

Meanwhile your Herb, we understand,

Is on his way from town.

"We do not, though one can't be sure.

Anticipate the worst;

Expresses may be premature;

Still, Herbert should be first.

"Such realism must excite

The audience (and you) ...

If you are ready we are quite;

Your train will soon be due."

She formed a resolution, viz.,

To put no trust in men,

But hire herself to mistresses,

A whole, if humble, ckgn.

AT DURAZZO-SUPER-MARE.

Mpret. "I DON'T FEEL AT ALL COMFORTABLE HERE. ISN'T IT ABOUT TIME YOU TOOK ME OUT OF THIS?"
Europa (sleepily). "MPRAPS"

ONCE UPON A TIME.

Transmigration.

Once upon a time there was an ostrich who, though very ostrichy, was even more of an egoist. He thought only of himself. That is not a foible peculiar to ostriches, but this particular fowl—and he was very particular—was notable for it. "Where do I come in?" was a question written all over him—from his ridiculous and inadequate head, down his long neck, on his plump fluffy body, and so to his exceedingly flat and over-sized feet.

It was in Afric's burning sand—to be precise, at the Cape—that, on the approach of danger, the ostrich secreted his self-centred head, and here from time to time his plumes were plucked from him for purposes of trade.

Now it happened that in London there was a theatre given up to a season of foreign opera, and, this theatre having been built by one of those gifted geniuses so common among theatre architects, it followed that the balcony (into which, of course, neither the architect nor the manager for whom it was built had ever strayed) contained a number of seats from which no view of the stage was visible at all—unless one stood up, and then the people behind were deprived of their view. This, of course, means nothing to architects or managers. The thought that jolly anticipatory parties of simple folk bent upon a happy evening may be depressed and dashed by a position suffering from such disabilities could not concern architects and managers, for some imagination would be needed to understand it.

The new temporary management, however (whatever the ordinary management might do), recognising the rights of the spectator, refrained from selling any seats from which no view whatever could be obtained and behaved very well about it—as perhaps one has to do when half-a-guinea is charged for each seat; but with the border-line seats which they did sell—those on the confines of the possible area—- a view of the stage was only partial and so much a matter of touch-and-go that any undue craning of the neck or moving of the head sideways at once interrupted the line of vision of many worthy folk at the back; while anyone leaning too far forward from a seat in the front row could instantly, for many others, obliterate the whole stage.

It happened that on a certain very hot night in July a fat lady in one of the front seats not only leaned forward but fanned herself intermittently with a large fan.

Now and then one of the unfortunate half-guinea seat-holders behind her in the debatable territory remonstrated gently and politely, remarking on the privation her fan was causing to others, and each time the lady smiled and said she was very sorry and put the fan down; but in two minutes she was fluttering it again as hard as ever, and not a vestige of the Pentateuchal caperings or whatever was going forward could be discerned in her vicinity.

She meant well, poor lady; but it was very hot, and how could she help it when her fan was made of that particular ostrich's feathers?

"Methods of sowing, reaping, watering, and thrashing have been passed down from father to son through countless generations."

Chronicle of London Missionary Society.

Of thrashing, anyhow.

"The feature of the Keswick valley is its spacious width of skyscrape."—L.& N. W. R. Guide to the English Lakes.

In this respect New York is its only serious rival.

MY TROUSSEAU.

Having been a bachelor from my earliest youth I suppose I ought to be accustomed to the condition; but the fact remains that I miss something—something which only a wedding supplies.

Curiously enough this want is not a wife. I have been without one so long that I should not know what to do with her if I had one. I should probably overlook her, and she would become atrophied or die of neglect or thirst. Neither do I crave a home of my own; nor golden-haired children to climb up my knee. I can do without these accessories.

But what I do hunger for and what I will have is a trousseau. Why the acquisition of a trousseau should be a purely feminine prerogative I have never been able to understand. A bride without a trousseau is generally regarded as an incomplete thing—a poached-egg without toast; a salad without dressing. But the bridegroom without a trousseau is a recognised institution. True, he has new clothes, both seen and unseen, but this is not a trousseau; it is merely a "replenishment of his wardrobe." His least disreputable old things are "made to do"; and nobody thinks slightingly of him if he attends his wedding in a re-cuffed shirt or in boots that have been resoled. A girl, however, would as soon think of entering Paradise with a second-hand halo as she would contemplate being married in anything that was not aggressively new.

Thus it is that before my wish can be consummated I have two honoured conventions to defy: that only a girl may possess a trousseau, and that a marriage is a necessary condition to the acquiring of it. Fortunately I am strong-minded. A long course of Mrs. Humphry Ward's homilies has given me no little facility in achieving this attribute, and I am determined that I will change neither my sex nor my status.

Now, I have prepared a list, just as—I suppose—every girl does. In the first place I am going to indulge in the hitherto undreamt-of luxury of a surfeit of dress-shirts. No one who has not experienced life on two dress-shirts—one in wear, the other in the wash—can quite understand what this will mean to me. Men like Sir Joseph Beecham, Mr. Mallaby-Deeley, Mr. Solly Joel, Lord Howard de Walden, and others, who, I daresay, have four or even five, cannot know what it is to feel that their evening's refreshment and entertainment depend on their finding the French chalk or the india-rubber.

Therefore I am making no stint in this matter. I am having fifteen dress-shirts, so that there may be one for wear each day in the week, seven in the laundry, and one over for emergencies—like Parsifal, that begins in the middle of the afternoon. I mean to be similarly lavish in the matter of collars and handkerchiefs. The number of the former which I am buying amounts almost to an epidemic; while the extent of my commission in the latter is the result of lessons learnt in the hard school of experience. I say unhesitatingly that the man who tries to get through life on a mere dozen handkerchiefs is simply begging for disaster, as, however methodical in their use he may be, a carelessly-caught cold may any day upset his reckoning and leave him at a loose end; sometimes scarcely that. Hence I am doing this part of my trousseau in princely fashion. I am having half a gross of them.

Then there is my slumber-wear. For years I have hungered for silk ones, but have had no conscientious excuse for appeasing my appetite. To buy silk pyjamas in cold blood has hitherto seemed to me to be sheer cynical extravagance; but now I feel that circumstances justify me in my action, for it would be a very sorry thing for me to encounter a burglar or cope with a fire clad in apparel that would not be up to the standard of the rest of my wardrobe.

Now, I am a great believer in dressing for the spirit of the moment; therefore I have resolved upon a pretty colour-scheme for my night-wear. My pyjamas are to be of tints conducive to refreshing rest, namely and severally white, lemon, light pink, and pale green—an idea which I candidly confess was inspired by the spectacle of a Neapolitan ice. If you think that this is merely an idle whim, just imagine endeavouring to sleep in pyjamas patterned like an Axminster carpet or a Scotch tartan. No wonder Macbeth "murdered sleep" if he was arrayed in garments of his club-colours!

I have brought the same æsthetic sense to bear upon my choice of ties and socks: greys and blacks for times of grave political crises; fawn, buff, pearl, moose—I am not sure that this is a colour, but it sounds quite possible—for brighter hours; and colours familiar to every student of spectroscopy for halcyon days of rejoicing—the opening of the Royal Academy, the Handel Festival, the return of Harry Lauder, or the elevation of Mr. Bernard Shaw to the peerage.

As for externals, suffice it to say that they will be en suite, and that I intend to introduce just a little touch of originality into my trousers. I am going to have them made with spats sewn to the leg-ends in order to save time and trouble in dressing.

In short, I have forgotten nothing, except spare studs, and I think it is quite likely that I shall remember them too in course of time. I have even gone so far as to fix a day for a dress rehearsal. But first I shall invite my friends, as is the way with brides-elect, to a private view of my trousseau, when they shall see all of it spread upon the coverlet of my bed, over the backs of my chairs, or hanging in serried ranks in my wardrobe.

And now nothing more remains to be done but to raise the necessary funds, and with this object in view I have instructed my broker to draw my money out of the Savings Bank. I am expecting a postal-order almost any moment.

Yokel. "'Ow fast can she travel, Master?"

Owner. "Fifty miles an hour, my man—even sixty if I care to push her."

Yokel. "An' 'ow many if ye both shove?"

"'Anna virumque cano' was the burden of the charge the Chief Secretary had to meet, and it sorely embarrassed the dear gentleman."—Liverpool Courier.

Who is "Anna"? We hope Mr. Birrell is not mixed up in a scandal.

AN IMPALPABLE FLAME.

Claude. "What are you waitin' here for, old thing?"

Cuthbert. "To give these flowers and chocolates to that stunning little girl in 'The Death Kiss of deadman's Gulch.'"

THE AWAKENING

(A Little Romance of the Restaurant-Car).

Is there a sight so soothing to the brain

As England's outlines green and softly curved,

Visions of wooded slope and fertile plain

Seen by the traveller in a dining-train,

No doubts to vex him and no talk to strain,

His seat, his chance companion, both reserved?

I think not. Yet the rather stoutish man

Who never raised his head but chewed and chewed

Annoyed me as I feasted. I began

To deem him one who had no higher plan,

No larger outlook in life's journeyings, than

Resonant demolition of his food.

I longed to point to him the hedges twined

With starry blossoms, and the coats like silk

Of oxen as they wandered unconfined;

I longed to ask him if his heavier mind

Preferred the cattle of more stedfast kind

Stamped with advertisements of malted milk.

The little red-brick hamlets, poised apart,

And all the grandeur of the rolling leas,

I longed to ask him if they brought no smart

Of scarce-remembered boyhood to his heart.

But I refrained; and he took cherry tart

And after that two different kinds of cheese.

And then we neared a little market town

Half hidden in the dale, that seemed to cling

Fondly about a church of old renown;

And here the fat man started and looked down

And filled his tumbler to the foaming crown

And held it high as if to pledge the king.

Some memory seemed to stir within his breast

As though the curtain of old days were torn,

And, as he drained the glass with eager zest,

"Behold," I thought, "I wronged him. In that nest,

So far from turmoil, full of old-world rest

(He is about to tell me), he was born.

"And now, before the antique spire hath fled,

Because remembrance of his home is dear,

He toasts it deeply." All my wrath was dead.

Then the man smiled at me and wagged his head;

"Junction for Little Barleythorpe," he said;

"A week ago these points upset my beer."

Evoe.

AN UNPLAYED MASTERPIECE.

[The growing popularity of the one-Act play has prompted the aphorism that what is required in this class of drama is a "maximum of action with a minimum of explanation." Nevertheless the following effort has been rejected by every Manager in London—a fact which decisively answers the oft-repeated question, "Do Managers read plays?">[

Scene—A luxuriously furnished room in the flat of Violet Hazelwood. Violet is seated, writing. The telephone on the table rings noisily.

Violet (picking up the receiver). Hello! Yes.... It's me.... Oh, it's Reggie.... Yes, I'm at home to you.... In three minutes?... Right. I shall be here. (Hangs up receiver.)

Maid (entering suddenly). Sir Frank Bulkeley, m'm. (Goes out and Sir Frank enters.)

Sir Frank. My dear Violet—— (A report is heard and a splintering of glass.) Confound it all, I'm shot! (Falls on floor.)

Violet. Yes, he certainly appears to be shot. I'd better go and see the police about it.(Goes out.)

Reggie Fortescue (entering precipitately). Violet.... (Looking round in perplexity). Not here! She said she would be here.... She is false to me. False! I have nothing left to live for. (Takes out a revolver, shoots himself and falls on the floor.)

Gerald Maristowe (entering cautiously through the window and carrying a rifle). This is a devil of a risky business, this rifle practice, but Ulster must be saved somehow. I see I've broken the window. Wonder if I've done any other damage. (Sees Sir Frank.) Gee! I've killed a man! (Sees Reggie.) Oh, glory! I've killed two of 'em! Reggie, too, by all that's rum! I say, you know, that's pretty useful shooting.... Still, it probably means hanging, and I'm—er—hanged if I'll be hanged. Let me rather die by my own hand. (Discharges rifle at himself, and falls on floor.)

Violet (re-entering with an Inspector and a Constable). There he is, Inspector. (Sees Gerald.) My goodness, there seem to be two now! I feel sure.... (Sees Reggie.) Three! Really, Inspector, I feel almost certain that when I left.... Oh, it's Reggie! My heart is broken! (Faints.)

Inspector. Stand back, Clarkson; this job requires thought. (Takes up telephone receiver.) Circus 20634, Miss.... That you Doc.? Come round at once, please.... Two or three men shot.... Right.... (Hangs up receiver.) Clarkson, measure the exact distance between each corpse and the window. (Clarkson proceeds to do so. Enter Doctor.) Ah, Doc., that's the little job I mentioned.

Doctor (kneeling by Violet). This one isn't shot; she's only fainted. She'll be all right in a minute. (Examines Gerald.) Nor is this one. He'll be all right in a minute. (Examines Reggie.) Nor is this one. He'll be all right in a minute. (Examines Sir Frank.) This one is, though. Dead as a door-nail. (Violet, Reggie and Gerald rise simultaneously to their feet.) There you are! I told you so.

Gerald (aside). Missed!

Reggie (aside). Missed! (Aloud) Violet, I love you!

Violet. I'm so glad, because I love you.

Reggie (confidentially). Do you know, I really thought I was dead. Hello. Gerald, old son, what are you doing here?

Gerald. Oh, I thought I'd sort of look in, you know.

Inspector. Violet Hazelwood, I arrest you for the murder of Sir Frank Bulkeley, Bart., and I warn you that anything you may say will be used in evidence against you. Clarkson, stop playing with that tape and handcuff the prisoner. (Clarkson does so.)

Gerald (aside). Good business! That saves my neck.

Violet. But, my dear good soul.... However, I suppose it's no use to say anything. Reggie, I can never marry you now.

Reggie. You couldn't in any case, my dear, because I haven't got any money.

Violet. You forget that you are sole heir to Sir Frank there, who had fourteen thousand a year. I thought of that at once.

Reggie. Columbus! So I am. Well, that is a dashed nuisance.

Gerald (coming forward nobly). My dear, dear friends, I cannot allow your happiness to be wrecked in this way. I killed Sir Frank! You can be married now.

Reggie. Good egg! (Embraces Violet.)

Inspector. Gerald Maristowe, I arrest you for the murder of Sir Frank Bulkeley, Bart., and I warn you that anything you may say will be used in evidence against you.

Violet. Oh, we must save him. What can we do?

Clarkson. Lady, do you remember years ago giving sixpence to a starving boy in Peckham Rye?

Violet. Yes.

Clarkson. I am—that is, was—that boy. I will save your friend. Inspector, you know that a reward of £10,000 is offered for the capture of the anarchist Mazzio?

Inspector. Yes. I wish to heaven I could lay my hands on him.

Clarkson. I can tell you how to do so.

Inspector. How?

Clarkson (dramatically tearing off his wig and false moustache). I am Mazzio! (Turning to Gerald and the others) I shall struggle violently. While he is engaged in arresting me, you can make good your escape.

Inspector. Ha! Do you think I can be so easily baffled? (Picking up telephone receiver.) There are other police in the neighbourhood.

Violet. Not so. (Slashes through the telephone cord with a knife).

Gerald. Bravo!

Inspector. Oh, well, never mind. (Puts his head out of the window and blows a police whistle. The others look at one another in consternation.) Now I think I am master of the situation.

Clarkson. Foiled! All the same, you are less fortunate than you imagine. When I said I was Mazzio, I lied.

Inspector. Prove it.

Clarkson. Easily. Mazzio has a scar on his left forearm. (Rolling up sleeve.) I have none.

Inspector. Oh, well, never mind. I can now proceed with the arrest of the murderer of Sir Frank Bulkeley, Bart.

Gerald (aside). I'm done for!

Clarkson. There must be some way of escape. Doc., it's up to you to do something.

Doctor. With pleasure. I certify that Sir Frank died from heart disease.

Inspector (stammering). But—but—but he's obviously shot. I mean to say——

Doctor. I certify that Sir Frank Bulkeley died from heart disease ten seconds before the bullet struck him You can do nothing in the face of my certificate.

Gerald, Reggie and Violet. Saved!

Curtain.

This Wonderful World.

"A Hamburg bookkeeper named Schute who has just celebrated his 8th birthday, has been with his employers for sixty years, while his son, his grandson, and his great-grandson are also working for them."

The Evening News.

"During the last two years some marvellous 'finds' have been made at this wonderful fortress from time to time. It is intended to continue excavation work for a moth."

Denbighshire Free Press.

They can be caught much better with beer and treacle.

"LIBERAL MEMBER RESIGNS."

Will Stand as Independent.

London, Wednesday.—Mr. Joseph Martin. Liberal M.P. for East St. Pancras, is resigning his seat, and will recontest it as an independent South Pole under American auspices."—Sydney Daily Telegraph.

Sir Ernest Shackleton must look out.

First Caddie. "Does it make yer dizzy lookin' down these 'oles?"

Second Caddie. "No."

First Caddie." Then why don't you go to the pin sometimes?"

THE FIRST TEE.

(Mullion, July 17th.)

It is the place, it is the place, my soul!