Part 2

What _'e_ don't know about cockney conniverings, _and_ country collyfogs, isn't worth knowing. Why, 'e's been _everythink_, ploughboy and street-preacher, betting-man, jock, "all-a-blowing-a-growing," Pedlar and poacher, 'orse-dealer, and 'earse-driver! Yes, and 'is name seems to tell the whole story To us as 'ave 'eard it in "COWSLIP'S" soft snuffle, when over a toddy-tot, all in 'is glory.

What _I_ say is this: If a Cabby can't see, and take stock of, the life of this wonderful City, Perched 'igh on 'is box, with arf town for 'is fares, and 'is eye on the other arf, well, it's a pity. I've drove BILLY SHIKSPUR'S Seven Ages, _I_ have, and a tidy lot more as the Swan never thought on; For cabs wasn't up in the days of Queen BESS; though that _Jaques_ as a Growler I think might 'ave caught on!

I've known his fair moral in stror bands and capes, 'stead o' cloak and trunk 'ose. Ah! If WILLIAM 'ad driven A 'ansom ten year--and I guess for the chance all them Venice canals and their boats 'e'd ha' given!-- What plays 'e'd ha' found ready-made to 'is 'ands! Was it DIZZY as called us the London Gondolers? Well, 'e knowed a thing or two, BENJAMIN did, 'bout Romance; a lot more than your stick-in-the-'olers.

_Romance?_ I could reel you out yarns by the hour, as I've dropped on, or 'eard of from others, since cabbing; But it's only when Bobby is fair on our track, or there's perks in the wind, as we're given to blabbing. Trot 'em out in the Shelter sometimes to our pals; some on 'em, I tell you, are creepy and twittery, Just the right stuff for them "'Aporths of All Sorts" the scrap-'unting parties as calls theirselves littery.

Take railway-stations, theayters, and 'orsepitals, them three alone, and, for comic _or_ tragic, Imagine the drammers a driver gets glimpses of! Peeps through town-winders, too! Tell you, it's magic, The way we spot mysteries, caught through a curtain, cock-eyed, from our perch nigh the second-floor level, In spins through back streets, or the sububs. The world and the flesh, my dear Sir,--with a dash of the d----l!

Me and my fares, _and_ my mates on the Rank, make a pretty big world. To a man as loves 'osses, A Cabby's life isn't arf bad on the whole, spite of bilks and bad weather, hard bosses and losses. The grip of the reins, and the flick of the whip, 'ave a fair fascination to fellows built _my_ way, And dulness--that cuss of the poor!--doesn't 'unt you in spinnin' through Babbylon's 'ighway or byeway.

Dulness! To drowse on the Rank for two hours, or more, waiting a fare, isn't sparkling or thrilling, And then, p'r'aps, a stingy old mivvey with luggage, as takes yer two miles, full, and tips a bare shilling! But lively turn-ups are most times on the _tappy_, or just round the corner. Cab, Sir! Piccadilly? Now if that chalk-face, with the penny-slot mouth, doesn't 'ide a grim story or two, send me silly!

* * * * *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

Now that the World has taken his wife to the sea-side or the Continent, there is not much demand for heavy literature--especially as the cost of the over-weight in luggage is something considerable beyond Calais--and consequently trifles light as air have become the popular brain-food of the multitude. In the absence of his noble and respected chief, an Old Retainer of the Baron has read _Telling Stories_, originally published in the _St. James's Gazette_. The Old Retainer can honestly declare that the stories are not only worth telling, but being re-told--in their present form--they are just the things to amuse the traveller weary of watching the hat-box on the carriage-rack, or the third-rate mountains fading into distance on the Rhine. He will turn to them for recreation when he has tired of sight-seeing. They are, without exception, short, crisp, and interesting. The Old Retainer would not think of leaving town without them. They would be more welcome to him than his armour, and quite as necessary as his weather-worn umbrella. The Veteran Warder, still acting on behalf of his revered, but far-a-field, captain, has peeped into _The Times Atlas_, a magnificent volume, worthy of the best traditions of Printing House Square. The Aged Watchman has sampled the maps, and found them absolutely accurate in the smallest particulars. The _Atlas_ has caused the Elderly Sentry to think seriously of quitting his guard, and journeying to the far North. He has not yet decided upon his destination. At the moment of writing, his inclination gaily suggest "Greenland," while his banking-account sternly whispers "Southend or Herne Bay." In the meanwhile, the Years'-stricken Looker-out remains at his post, and, with a hand trembling with age and emotion, proudly appends a signature not his own.

THE BARON DE BOOK-WORMS.

* * * * *

TOWN VERSUS COUNTRY.

(_An Intercepted Letter._)

MY DEAR BOB,--I have got your note, sympathising with me on my sad fate of being "tied to town" in August. Don't cry while you are in the wood. I can assure you that bricks and mortar are just as pleasant as green leaves. Not that we do not have the latter. Hyde Park is at its best, and Battersea is beautiful beyond compare. And mind you, my lad, it is unnecessary to stroll through either in the height of May Day fashion. The House is sitting, and the Irish Members are quite equal to keeping both sides on the move.

And at night we have plenty of gaiety, not only in the Strand, where _The Shop Girl_ is as popular as ever, but at the Lyric too, where _The Artist's Model_ is a pattern of prosperity. Then there are the halls of dazzling delight. _Titania_, at the Alhambra, and _Faust_, at the Empire, leave nothing to be desired save a lot more of them. So, my dear young friend do not condole before you have reason. London is going well and strong, and, while this happens, I can dispense with the jocular joys of Shrimpington-on-Sea.

Yours, cheerfully, DOLLY.

* * * * *

M'CARTHY'S MOTTO (_the wish being father to the thought_).--"Sic transit gloria REDMONDI!"

* * * * *

* * * * *

"THE CHILDREN'S COUNTRY HOLIDAYS FUND."

It will be remembered that a fortnight since appeared in _Punch_ (Vol. 109, No. 2823) an article entitled "The Country of Cockaigne," written as a reminder that the above excellent fund was not only in existence, but sorely in need of contributions. Since then the appeal has been answered by the charitably disposed, and acknowledged by the proper official at head-quarters. It is gratifying to learn that the paper published in these pages has been of signal service to the young clients for whom author and artist plied pen and pencil with so much goodwill. It is not customary to publish "serious" contributions from voluntary contributors in these columns, but the following extract from a letter received from the Secretary of the "Children's Country Holidays Fund" is such pleasant reading that an apology for its insertion seems superfluous:--

"'The Country of Cockaigne' has caused such a pressure of work here, that I am afraid the ordinary duties of gratitude have been long delayed. May I say that we, and here I speak for the London children, are very grateful indeed.

"It was scarcely eleven o'clock last Wednesday when a man came in with £1 to send JIMMY and FLORRIE away, and there were several more on the same errand at lunch time. Since the article appeared we have received £1,334 11_s._ 6_d._--of this over £500 has been sent with special mention of _Punch_, and considerably more than this is undoubtedly due to it.... One father, speeding away to Switzerland with his family, read _Punch_ in the train, and scribbled a note in pencil that he wanted to help before going on his holiday, and wrote a cheque for £7--at Dover station."

Then the writer says that many of the contributors to the Fund wanted to know whether JIMMY and FLORRIE were real children, and concludes with an expression of "heartiest thanks to all concerned." Of course, JIMMY and FLORRIE are children of the brain, but they are none the less real on that account. They are types of thousands. A correspondent suggests that the article is calculated to do so much good that it should be reprinted. This would be impracticable. However, it is possible to repeat "the Moral"; and this being so, we give it:--

"The offices of the Children's Country Holidays Fund are at 10, Buckingham Street, Strand, and contributions should be made payable to the Hon. Treasurer."

* * * * *

HUMPTY-DUMPTY'S SONG.

(_Adapted from "Through the Looking-glass" to the Political Situation_)

_Humpty-Dumpty_ Diplomacy. _Alice_ Public Opinion.

["The SULTAN, it seems, has not yet taken to heart the solemn warning addressed to him by Lord SALISBURY, and approved by the leaders of the Opposition.... The SULTAN alone turns a deaf ear to the friendly counsel which it is so _greatly to his interest to accept_."--_The Times._]

"The piece I am going to repeat," said HUMPTY-DUMPTY to ALICE, "was written entirely for your amusement. It goes thus"--

I sent a letter to the Turk, Bidding him stay his horrid work.

The Turk delayed two months or three, Then sent an answer back to me.

The Turk's belated answer was, "I cannot do it, Sir, _because_----"

I sent to him again to say, "It is your interest to obey."

He answered, with a sleepy grin, "Why, what a hurry you are in!"

I urged him twice, I urged him thrice. He would not listen to advice.

I took a rod, 'twas large and new, Fit for the work I had to do.

Namely, that lazy Turk to tickle; And then I put that rod in pickle.

The Turk he wrote to me and said, "My agents are asleep in bed."

I wrote to him, I wrote it plain, "Then you must wake them up again!"

I wrote it very large and clear; I had it shouted in his ear.

But he was very stiff and proud; He said, "You needn't shout so loud!"

And he was very proud and stiff; He said, "I'll try and wake them, _if_----"

I put his "answer" on the shelf: I said, "I'll wake them up myself!"

He cried, "No good! The door is locked, I've pulled, and pushed, and kicked, and knocked.

And when I found the door was shut I tried to turn the handle, _but_----"

There was a long pause.

"Is that all?" ALICE timidly asked.

"That's all,--_for the present_," said HUMPTY-DUMPTY.

* * * * *

* * * * *

A TRIP "PER SEA."

_Appetite--Steward--Wandering--The Cigar--Umbrella--Suspicions--Judicial--Interrogation--Evidence--Stowaway --Verdict--Off--Surmise--Lunch--Afloat--Night--Morning--Away--Landing._

Suddenly aware of commencement of what promises to be uncommonly fine and large appetite when it reaches maturity. _Happy Thought._--Find steward. _Still Happier Thought._--Finding steward, not for the purpose usually associated with calling for that official on a rough day between Dover and Calais. On present occasion only to ask him, when found, the hour of lunch. Somehow he eludes my search. After wandering about vaguely into several other persons' cabins, I find myself suddenly on a narrow lower deck. Don't know its technical name. And now "a strange thing happens." Before me, leaning against a rail, is the portly, or rather sea-portly, jovial-looking individual, whose acquaintance I have already made in captain's cabin, thoughtfully finishing a cigar. By the way, at any period of our too-brief acquaintance I never see him without cigar, which he is always just finishing, but never commencing. At this moment his cheery countenance wears as hard an expression, quite unnatural to it, as it could by any possibility assume for more than three minutes at a stretch, He is addressing a flabby, cadaverous-looking individual in seedy black trousers and coat, one button of which conceals the upper part of a waistcoat made of some "washing material," and apparently as greatly in need of the cleansing process as is its wearer. In one ill-shaped, dirty hand he holds a very superior class of umbrella, with a gold tip to it. I at once jump to the conclusion that its present possessor, having come by it dishonestly, has been taken dirty-red handed, and that my stout acquaintance is a sort of nautical magistrate, authorised to try such cases by a sort of informal court-martial on board, and empowered to order the culprit, if found guilty, to be put in irons, or to be mast-headed, or otherwise dealt with according to maritime law.

Standing in the gangway I become an interested spectator of the trial. The evidently guilty party, pale as a suet dumpling, and trembling like a jelly (remarkable culinary combination), is awaiting his sentence. "Why didn't you go on board the tender with every one else?" asks my Judicial and Nautical Assessor (I fancy this is the terra in the Admiralty Court, where, if on shore, he would probably sit attired in full naval uniform, with a judge's wig on, and a cocked hat a-top of that). The man mutters something about "didn't hear." "Not hear!" ejaculates the Assessor, taking a short pull at his cigar and smiling incredulously, "not hear! when everyone was shouting and rushing all over the ship!" Personally I can bear witness to these facts; but, not being called as evidence for the Crown and Anchor, I remain silent. Why even down in the engine-rooms the stokers must have heard the shouts for "TUBBS!" It occurs to me suddenly that this wretched man must have stolen TUBBS' umbrella. But I am at once enlightened as to the real state of the case. "Look here, my man," says the Judicial and Nautical Assessor, as he critically eyes the ash of his cigar before flicking it off while speaking to the prisoner, "you said you came on board to see your friends off; you gave their name as TOMPKINS. Well, there isn't such a name on the books." This statement seems to come as a "facer" to the cadaverous man, who, becoming more cadaverous than ever, eyes the deck-rails askance, as if contemplating a sudden rush and a jump into the water.

"Now, my man," continues the Assessor, with pleasant severity, "you say you've got friends at Plymouth,"--the man is understood to assent to this proposition in a despairing sort of way--"and you say they'll pay for you there." The slightest indication of a cunning smile momentarily illumines the Job Trotter-like countenance of the prisoner. "Well, we don't do business on those terms. You give the steward three guineas, and we'll take you to Plymouth. But if you can't pay--off you go. Here, steward, you're wanted." And that officer coming up, the miserable individual with the valuable umbrella (about which no questions have been asked) is given into his charge by my stout acquaintance, who, as we enter the smoking-room, says to me in an undertone, "He's a regular 'do.' We've hailed a boat, and he'll be put off in two two's. He wanted to get his passage free. He's a 'stowaway,' that's what _he_ is."

A stowaway! Up to this moment of cruel disenchantment, my sympathies have always been with the "stowaway." I imagined him as a poor, ill-used kind of _Smike_ or _Oliver Twist_, hiding himself away among the casks in the lowest hold of the vessel, only issuing forth in the dead of night with the rats and cockroaches, who, suddenly coming to the upper deck in a terrific storm, steers the ship into a peaceful haven, saves the captain from a watery grave, and who, finally, either marries the low high admiral's daughter, or (which is more affecting) the poor stowaway mutters something about "Home," and, gratefully smiling, as he looks up at the now utterly overcome captain, dies, in the lime-light, to slow music, with his head reposing on that deeply affected officer's best epaulette. In fact, a sort of nautical "Poor _Jo_." But this idea is utterly knocked over by the appearance of the real genuine stowaway, who has such a sneaky, crawly, strangling-you-asleep appearance, that I own to a feeling of intense gratification on seeing two men rowing a small boat up alongside (for which we slack off a bit), while at the same moment the discomfited sneak with the expensive, and still mysterious, umbrella, who has descended the lowered gangway, stands on the shaky ledge below as if he were about to take a plunge--which, indeed, he does; not, fortunately for him, into the tidal river, but head foremost into the dingy, where for a second or two he lies sprawling. Regaining his legs, he steadies himself, and actually has the impudence to wave his hat to us by way of bidding us farewell, and hoping we'll have a good passage! "And," I ask of a sharp-looking little officer, who is superintending the hauling up of the ladder, "what will become of him? Can he pay those boatmen?" "Heaven knows!" is the answer, and we drop the subject as we have already dropped the miserable object. At the last he will have to give up that umbrella, worth quite a guinea, in payment for being taken ashore. And then--... alas! poor _Job Trotter_ the Stowaway! I'm afraid a good seven years is in store for him on some count or other; and, may be, that's about the best that can happen to him.

The bugle-call. Bugle sounded by mysterious person in plain clothes, who, like myself, "comes out for a blow." After this he is "heard no more," until, at six P.M., he sends out his notes "_de faire part_," _i.e._, to inform the company that it is time to dress for dinner. At 6.30 he gives a good hearty blow out, cheerily announcing the last meal of the day. Then he vanishes till next morning at breakfast-time.

_One o'clock._--Such a prodigal luncheon as is provided only on board ship. Most appropriate name, "Liners." At meal times we are all "liners," and very plentifully do we line. Only on board one hour, and my appetite is _Dominie Sampsonish_, _i.e._, "prodi-gi-ous!"

After lunch--with the essential Oriental curry--the necessary cigar and coffee-cum-liqueur; we talk as we pace the deck up and down and round and round, occasionally stopping to remark on the coast scenery, and to puzzle out the exact localities of the best known places from Whitstable to Dover.

So passes a fine and most enjoyable afternoon; then more bugle, capital dinner, band playing, lively conversation, cigars and coffee, more pacing deck, storytelling, game of cards, music, piping (no dancing), grogging, and so to bed at an earlyish hour, to sleep soundly, undisturbed even by solos on the fog-horn which, I am subsequently informed, were of frequent occurrence, until the polite Commander of the Bath knocks at cabin door to inform me that it is seven A.M., and that the warm sea bath awaits me.

_L'appétit vient en baignant_, and while walking the deck we gratefully welcome the bugler who bugles us to breakfast. We rush down. False alarm! It is only the politeness of the bugler, who beforehand, so that no one shall be taken by surprise, gives us the note of warning, letting us know thereby that, in half-an-hour, breakfast will be, so to speak, "under weigh!" Fair start for all.

_Nine A.M._--Lions feeding not in it with us sea-dogs. What a breakfast! as if we were not going to be within reach of food for the next fortnight. We are all taking in stores hand over hand.

Alas! when next the bugle sounds for lunch we shall not be there! For, as the clock strikes one, a tender from Plymouth arrives to fetch us, and in a pelting shower we leave the good ship _Orotava_, taking with us our chief cheery companion; and after bidding adieu to the other cheery companions on board, we (a small party of three) take train from Plymouth, S. Devon, to Ilfracombe, N. Devon, traversing as pretty a line of country as is to be found in England. And so we begin our holiday, and advise everyone to do likewise and enjoy the trip as much as we did, and a holiday as much as we intend to do.

* * * * *

Rhyme by a Rad.

CHAMBERLAIN thinks the old, old Tory mind, Has changed in love of privilege, power, pelf: Say what JOE will, _our_ eyes he cannot blind; _We_ know that his Tory repeats itself!

* * * * *

* * * * *

THE INDEPENDENT FEATHER PARTY.

_First Partridge._ Hallo! Goin' strong on the wing?

_Second Partridge._ So, so, dear bird. What prospects for the openin'?

_F. P._ Nothin' cheerful. Agricultural depression and Death Duties and Pariah Councils and all that. Hear they're goin' to make allotments in our beanfield.

_S. P._ Yes, and the Anti-Shootin' League and the claptrap against the Lords. It's very depressin'. However, with a sportin' Government in, things will be lookin' up.

_F. P._ Takes time, my feathered one, takes time. Why, they're still sittin' with the season just comin' on. Hear it's doocid dull in town, too, with the pavin' up in the Mall and all that.

_S. P._ Where do you get the club talk from, old rooster?

_F. P._ Bird I know keepin' over in the roots. Pal of a poacher that's thick with one of these West End game-mongers. Get the latest from him. Hear HEALY and TANNER and that lot are on the war-path, and heaven only knows when the House will be up.

_S. P._ Wouldn't have mattered much in the good old days before the guv'nor let the shootin' to the brewin' Member. Lords never did a stroke of work after the Twelfth; but these Commoners ain't born and bred among the turnips. Only take the shootin' for the sake of appearances.

_F. P._ Yes; and I hear that the brewin' fellow's given the first week's sport to three of these New Women.

_S. P._ Means a bad time for us--blazin' into the brown, and all that. Give me the right kind of sport, I say, and a fly for my money. With these 'prentice hands you never know where you are, don't you know? Bound to fly into the pips some day or other.

_F. P._ And probably no dogs to give you a wrinkle how things lie. Keepers won't bring 'em out at any price. Say it's chancy enough for themselves and the beaters, without riskin' a decent-bred setter. Lost three and a half brace of clippin' Gordons with two New Women guns last season over the other side of the county.

_S. P._ Goin' in for co-operation this year? What do you think of the covey system?

_F. P._ Played out, dear bird. Social fads a bit off colour, don't you know, in these Tory days. Individualism, I say, and let every fowl sit tight for himself, especially with this wild shootin' goin' on. Family ties a little loose, too, this end of the century. Look at the Divorce Courts.

_S. P._ No chance of Protection, I suppose?