No Alarmist.
Dear Ed'tor,—I write you a line to say I've jus' been 'sulted—grossly 'sulted—on Thames 'Bankmen'. Walkin' 'long—quite shober—sud'ly 'costed by man dressed like 'pleeceman. Said "lot bad krakters about"—took hold of my arm—wanted see me into cab. I saw through him at once. It was a plot! Wanted steal vabblewatch—forshately lef' watch home. Angry at not findin' watch—bundled me into cab anyhow—feel 'fects still. Whash Scolland Yard 'bout? Are spekbull citizens to be 'sulted by pleece—by me'dress-li'pleece, I mean? It's all true 'bout Lunn' bein' most unsafe. Norra word' of 'xagg'ration! Cre' 'xperto. Thash Latin!—Shows I'm spekbull. No more now! He'ache.
Yours, Rum Punch.
Sir Gerald Portal.
Of Afric's districts C. and E.,
'Tis clear to any mortal,
We've but to keep our Afric key,
And enter by our Portal.
The following mysterious advertisement is cut from the Grantham Journal:—
WANTED, to Purchase, a HALF-LEGGED Horse, five years old, suitable for Building work, about 16 hands.—Address, &c.