PUNCH.—Enough, sir. The court considers you have grossly misconducted yourself, and refuses to grant you license to perform.
MEL.—But, my lord, I protest I did nothing.
PUNCH.—So everybody says, sir. You are therefore unfit to have the management of (next to my own) the greatest theatre in the world. You may retire.
MEL. (to RUSS.)—Oh! Johnny, this is your work—with your confounded hanky-panky.
RUSS.—No—’twas you that did it; we have been ruined by your laziness. What is to become of us now?
MEL.—Alas! where shall we dine?
The next individual who presented himself, to obtain a license for the Carlton Club Equestrian Troop, was a strange-loooking character, who gave his name as Sibthorp.
PUNCH.—What are you, sir?
SIB.—Clown to the ring, my lord, and principal performer on the Salt-box. I provide my own paint and pipe-clay, make my own jokes, and laugh at them too. I do the ground and lofty tumbling, and ride the wonderful donkey—all for the small sum of fifteen bob a-week.