THE SAND CAMPAIGN.
THE ARAB AND THE CHANCELLOR
WERE WALKING HAND-IN-HAND;
THE LATTER WEPT A LOT TO SEE
SUCH QUANTITIES OF SAND;
"WHY ARE YOU HOLDING UP," HE SAID,
"THIS VERY FERTILE LAND?"
"First?" he asked.
"Oh yes," said I. "I have seen you more than once. Surely you haven't forgotten that time at Watford?"
He felt that I had the advantage of him. "When was that?" he asked.
"Not very long after the first time; and the next occasion I remember seeing you was at a place called—called—something beginning with a B."
He was quite unable to cope with the situation.
"And the next time," I continued, "I happened to be passing through that town where the school is—you know, Rugby. I distinctly recollect noticing then that you hadn't changed in the least since I last saw you."
He couldn't decide whether to be more flattered at my remembering or more annoyed at his own forgetting.
"Come, come," I exclaimed, "you surely cannot have forgotten that little chat we had at Coventry?"
"Coventry?" he asked. "But how long ago was that?"
"Quite recently," I asserted.
"But I haven't set foot in Coventry for years," said he.
"Nor have I, ever," said I.
I could understand his feelings thoroughly. It might be that I was a liar; it might be that I was a lunatic. In either case he did not wish to converse further with me. Happily, I had two newspapers available.
As the speed of our train, in which of old he had taken such a pride, began to slacken: "And I shouldn't be surprised," I said from behind my paper, "if you and I saw each other again quite soon. The world is a small place and these things soon develop into a habit."
He made no answer from behind his paper.
"If you ask me when and where" (as in fact he didn't), "I should say it is just as likely as not to happen at Birmingham at about 8.55 P.M.," I estimated, relying upon his own schedule.
Harold (who has just been kissed by his sister). "I SAY, I WONDER WHAT SHE'S UP TO?"
Friend. "SIGN OF AFFECTION, ISN'T IT?"
Harold. "AFFECTION, YOU GOAT! SHE NEVER DOES THAT TILL THE LAST DAY OF THE HOLS, AND THERE'S A WEEK TO GO YET."
"The play was preceded by 'The £12 Hook,' another Barrie comedy of more recent date."—Sydney Morning Herald.
We should prefer to call it "The £12 Eye."
"LABOUR IN SOUTH AFRICA.
BLACK OUTLOOK."
Morning Post.
Let us hear both sides. What is the White Outlook?
"The grievance of the men is in regard to the rate of pay. They are paid 5½d. per hair."—Glasgow News.
And then when they are old and bald they have to starve.
"TANGO RAPIDLY DYING.
DANCE UPHELD BY MR. MAX PEMBERTON."
Daily Chronicle.
This is the sort of thing that the Revue King has to put up with. Truly the lot of royalty is not an enviable one.
From an advertisement of Tango matinées in The Lyceum:—
| "RESERVED TAUTENILS (4 first rows) | 10/— |
| TAUTENILS (tea included) | 7/6 |
| TAUTENILS (tea not included) | 6/—" |
Gourmet (planking down his seven-and-six). "Tea and tautenils, please."
Seen on a Liverpool hoarding:—
"Quo Vadis: Whither goest thou in eight reels?"
Answer. "Anywhere in reason, but not home."