"'Tis a pretty variation on Spanish devotional habit," says Plunket, who has followed Borrow's footsteps in Spain, "More especially in rural districts, pious men approach the shrine of favourite saint and hang upon it an offering, peradventure poor in intrinsic value, but rich in proportion to their revenues. Expect by-and-by the Sage will be canonised, and straying by the banks of the Guadalquivir, you shall here and there come upon shrines to Saint Labby, rich with votive offerings."
"That may be so," said Gorst. "You're always ready to take the poetic view of a thing. But I'd like to wait and see the colour of the money. You know the Sage has long been firing away at enterprising traders in Spain who, usually dating their missives from a State prison, offer for a slight consideration to disclose fabulous stores of hidden wealth. The Sage has spoiled their little game. Should like to be quite sure they've not broken out in a new place, and are trying it on first with the Sage."
Business done.—Set-to between the Birmingham Cock and the Yorkshire-cum-Fifeshire Bantam. Odds at first in favour of the veteran. Admitted on both sides the young 'un beat him hollow.
QUIET RUBBERS.
Off to Olympia—greatest show on earth—with wife; also with Bob and his wife. Find the two ladies wearing goloshes—"rubbers" they call them—say "they've just read in the paper that they are universal in America in winter." Annoyed. Never knew my wife's feet were as large as they seem now. Bob defends goloshes—hypocrite! Says "nothing wets feet like snow, and at any moment we may be in for the greatest snow on earth." Stupid joke, considering that a good boot will keep out anything. Why shouldn't the ladies leave their rubbers outside show, in cloak-room—as people do in mosques in the East? Would be quite in keeping with the "Orient." Ladies say they'll be lost—a good job if they were! Getting quite sulky, when BOB suggests dinner. Good dinner! Excellent wines! Wife's feet don't look as large now. Why doesn't everybody wear g'loshes? Old Greeks must have worn 'em—don't we read of the "Goloshus of Rhodes?" Old Romans, too, or why did they call their Olympia the Golosheum? BOB says they didn't. I say they did! Disturbance. Wonder who's making it? Turn 'em out! They're turning me out! Won't go—send for Kiralfy—Goloshy Kiralfy—there's the word again! Goloshy must wear rubbers. People trying to pacify me. Won't let 'em. Back home. Wife crying. What for? Says she will never go out in rubbers again! Yes, she shall. So will I. Put 'em on now!—To bed in rubbers.