"QUOUSQUE TANDEM?" OR, ONE AT A TIME.
Duologue in a Dog-cart.
Driver. Tc-c-c-h-k! Tc-c-c-h-k!!
Officious Friend. Steady there! Wo-o-o-a!!
Driver (aside). Confound the fellow! I wish he wouldn't fidget so.
Officious Friend (aside). He drive tandem? Wish he'd hand the ribbons to me!
Driver (aloud). Leader steps along, doesn't he?
Officious Friend (aloud). Ya-a-s. Bit too fast, I fancy. Forgets that the wheeler has to do the work.
Driver. Humph! Not so sure of that, in this case. Rather weedy, you know, and just a bit of a slug, if you ask me. I think they'd do better reversed—this journey, anyhow.
Officious Friend (testily). Nonsense! You never have done that wheeler justice. Fact is you don't understand the horse's character, or how to get the best out of him. Now I——
Driver (adapting old Trin. Coll., Cam., Recitation).
"Fact is, he understood computing
The odds at any bye-election;
Was a dead hand at elocuting,
Satire, and candidate-selection;
But, like his parallel, Lord Random,
He couldn't, somehow, drive a tandem."
Officious Friend. What are you muttering about? You know I'm not up in poetry. As to poor Lord Random, he was a smart whip, anyhow, and though I don't agree with "Z" in his impertinent comparisons, still——
Driver. Still? Well, I wish you'd sit still, old fellow, and not fidget with the reins. You're fretting that leader awfully.
Officious Friend. Confound the leader! Leaders, equine or—otherwise—(sotto voce: I was going to say asinine!)—are so apt to give themselves airs, and fancy they're pulling all the weight. Old G., for example!
Driver. Ah! and he's not the only instance.
[Sighs.
Officious Friend. If G. had taken my tip, he'd never have upset the coach as he did. But handlers of the ribbons are always so obstinate. Look out! Mind that finger-post! Why, the leader nearly ran into it.
Driver. Not at all, dear boy. But we'll run into something, and be both spilt if you don't leave off twitching at the reins.
Officious Friend (reading finger-post). Leamington! Hythe! Aha! Now I think—as I know these roads well—if you'd just let me——
Driver (decisively). Look here, old man! You remember our Compact?
Officious Friend (impatiently). Oh, of course, of course. But—I don't quite understand it as you seem to do.
Driver. Humph! (Again adapting.)
"Your Rule of the Road seems a paradox, quite;
For, in tooling our dog-cart along,
If you're left with the reins you are sure to be right,
If the reins are my right, it's all wrong."
Officious Friend. Oh, more poetry! What a chap you are for Metaphysics and the Muses! Now the foundations of my belief are facts and figures.
Driver (meditatively). It's a fact that the Tory total figures out much larger than the Liberal Unionist.
Officious Friend. Oh, bother! What's that got to do with it! Our Compact——
Driver. Is ours—not Leamington's it seems.
[Hums.
"There was a man at Leamington,
Who thought it would be nice
To jump into a Tory seat
By help of Tory "ayes."
But if those "ayes" should be "put out,"
It may prove no great gain
Jumping into a Tory seat
To please J. Ch-mb-rl-n!"
Officious Friend (grabbing reins). Here, I say! Whilst droning out your doggerel you're forgetting your driving. Where are you going? Look at that dashed leader!
[Leader faces sharp round and fidgets.
Driver (sharply). No wonder! Woa, lad, woa! Why on earth did you tug at the reins like that. I tell you that horse won't stand much more of it. Do you want a spill as well as a split?
Officious Friend. Why, no! But according to our Compact, the wheeler——
Driver. According to our Compact it's my turn at the ribbons to-day. One at a time, if you please. Do you call this driving tandem? We shall never get on like this! Are you driving this dog-cart, or am I?
[Left settling it.
