Master of the Ceremonies. "Look 'ere! 'Fore my man fights he wants two potties, three glassies an' a blood-alley; an' I wants a packet o' fags for meself."
THE BURIAL OF DUNDEE.
"Dundee is dead," said my wife, returning from her morning visit to the kitchen.
"I am very sorry to hear it," I replied, laying down the newspaper on the breakfast-table, at which I still lingered; and indeed I was sorry. Dundee had been our household cat from the earliest days of our married life, from the time when he was a tiny kitten the colour of marmalade, which had earned him his name.
"Cook is very much upset," my wife continued.
"Her distress does her credit," I answered.
"She talks of leaving."
I must confess with shame that a pang acuter than the first went through me at the news, for Cook was one of those rare artists who understands the value of surprise and never rides success to death.
"Ask her to reconsider her decision," I said.