A New Terror.—Johnson. Hullo, Thompson, you look peekish. What's wrong?
Thompson. The vibration of motor-carring has got on my liver.
Johnson. I see, automobilious!
On the Brighton Road.—Cyclist (to owner of dog over which he has nearly ridden). Take your beast out of my way! What right has he here?
Owner. Well, he pays seven and sixpence a year for the privilege of perambulation, and you pay nothing!
The Very Oldest Motor-Car.—The whirligig of time.