The House still going about with millstone of Budget Bill round its neck, Byrne, Butcher, Beach, Bowles and Bartley tugging at it, Kenyon-Slaney now and then uttering obvious truths with air of supernatural wisdom. Grand Young Gardner (address Board of Agriculture, Whitehall Place, S.W.) hands me scrap of paper; says he found it near Squire's seat on Treasury Bench; but it doesn't look like his writing:
"Two modes there are, O Byrne and Butcher,
Our gratitude to earn:
If Byrne would only burn up Butcher,
Or Butcher butcher Byrne;
Or both combine—yes, bless their souls—
To burn and butcher Tommy Bowles!"
Business done.—Very little.
Friday.—Temple going about much as if on Tuesday night he had got out of his cab in the ordinary fashion. He didn't, you know. Taken out in sections through the upper window by couple of stalwart policemen. This owing to circumstance that Irish cab-driver having, after fashion of his country, saved a trot for the avenue, dashed up against kerbstone and overturned cab.
"Gave me a start, of course," Temple said, as we brushed him down. "Not a convenient way of getting out of your hansom. What I was afraid of was being disfigured. Am not a vain man, but don't mind telling you, Toby, a scratch or a scar on one's face would have been exceedingly annoying. But I'm all right, as you see. Hope it isn't a portent. A small thing that under this Government I should be overturned. What I fear is, that unless we keep our eye on them they'll overturn the Empire."