"I sold my Chanst to the Butcher-boy!"
Mr. S. You unspeakable young idiot! But there, you will know better another time; and now go out at once, and order five hundred copies of Tiddler—a periodical which offers such intellectual and—ah—substantial advantages, deserves some encouragement. (Exit Robert.) Now Mother, Parmenas, girls—all of you, let us set to work, and see—just for the—ah—fun of the thing—if we can't be more fortunate with the next competition. We'll have Cook and Jane, and—ah—Robert in to help; the housework can look after itself for once ... what is it now, Priscilla?
Prisc. (faintly). I've just seen this. (Reads.) "In consequence of the recent decision at Bow Street, those who send solutions for this, and any future competitions, will not be required to forward any remittance with their coupons——"
Mr. S. (approvingly). An admirable arrangement—puts a stop at once to any pernicious tendency to—ah—speculation!
Prisc. (continuing)—"and successful competitors must, we fear, be content with no other reward than that of honourable mention."
Mr. S. Here, send after Robert, somebody! It's scandalous that the precious time of a whole family should be frittered away in these unedifying and—ah—idiotic competitions. I will not allow another Tiddler to enter my house!
Robert (entering with his arms full of "Tiddlers"). Please, Sir, I brought a 'undred, Sir, and they'll send up the rest as soon as ever they——Oh Lor, Sir, I on'y done as I was told, Sir!
[He is pounced upon, severely cuffed by a righteously indignant family, and sent flying in a whirlwind of tattered "Tiddlers," as the Scene closes.