Billy (winking). Well, that's as it happens, Johnnie! Remember the one we built in '86—eh?
Johnnie (shuddering). I should think I did. Don't mean to say we're to go on those lines again, Billy?
Billy. I mean to say nothing of the kind. Many things have happened since then, Johnnie. For one thing, we've had heaps of advice.
Johnnie. Hang it, yes! And where are the advisers? Standing aloof and criticising our work—in advance. Where's that bold, blusterous, bumptious Behemoth, Bill Stead? Knew all about building Snow Men, he did; had a private monopoly of omniscience in that, as in most other things, Bill had. And now he's licking creation into shape for six-pence a month, and shying stones at us whenever he sees a chance. Little cocksure Labby, too! Oh, he's a nice boy! If Bill takes all Knowledge for his province, Henry considers himself sole proprietor of Truth, and he lets us have Truth—his Truth—every week at least—in hard chunks—that hurt horribly. All in pure friendliness, too, as the Bobby said when he knocked the boy down to save him from being run over. Gr-r-r-r! Believe he's hiding behind the hedge there, with a pile of hard snowballs to pelt our Man out of shape as soon as we've licked him into it—if ever we do. Teddy Reed, too, he's turned nasty, though he does come from "gallant little Wales;" and now here's Wallace, the Scotch boy—though he was all right anyhow!—cutting up rough at the last moment, and complaining of our Snow Man (which they've all been howling for for six years), because he fancies its head is likely to be a little too Hibernian for his Caledonian taste! Oh, they're a nice loyal, grateful lot, Billy! And where are the Irish bhoys themselves, in whose interests we are freezing our fingers and nipping our noses? Standing off-and-on, as it were, bickering like blazes among themselves, and only uniting to land us a nasty one now and then—just to encourage us!
Billy (patting and punching away vigorously). Loyal? Grateful? Ah, Johnnie, you don't understand 'em as well as I do. Cold has got on your liver. You're a brave boy, Johnnie, but just a bit bilious. Building Snow Men isn't just like arranging bouquets, my boy. Let them bicker, Johnnie, and listen to what they say! It may all come in handy by-and-by. We've had gratuitous advice and volunteer plans all round, from Arty Balfour and Joey Chamberlain, as well as Henry, and Teddy, and Tim and John E., and the rest of 'em. Let them talk whilst we build, Johnnie. 'Tis a cold, uncomfortable job, I admit; and whether "friendly" advice or hostile ammunition will do us the most damage I hardly know—yet. Fierce foes are sometimes easier to deal with than friendly funkers. A "Thunderer" in open opposition affrights a true Titan less than a treacherous Thersites in one's own camp. But, Johnnie, we've got to build up this Snow Man somehow, and on some plan! I only hope (entre nous, Johnnie) that a thaw won't set in, and melt it out of form and feature before it is fairly finished!
[Left hard at it.
A DISTINCTION AND A DIFFERENCE.
Mr. Wilkins. "Beg pardon, Sir Pompey, but could you tell me who that Young Gen'l'man is you just took off yer 'At to?"