I had barely time to throw a backward glance of horror and deprecation, when the projecting feet of Good Queen Bess, her toboggan and her spiked steering-pegs were upon me.
The bridge had never been strong in point of bulwarks; the torrent which it spans is rapid and fed from icy heights; its banks do not lend themselves to debarkation.
When I recovered consciousness by force of exquisitely painful restoratives applied by the Völsunga Saga, the Mother of the Gracchi and Good Queen Bess (herself unscratched, though the plush of her toboggan was tarnished with my gore). I was solemnly intoning, "World without end: Achtung!" with all the conviction of a cathedral tenor. I am going home the day after to-morrow.
Suggestion.—A certain restaurant not a hundred miles away from the St. James's Theatre advertises, among other attractions, "Dîner Salon Gobelin, 7s. 6d." But wouldn't it be more appropriate to spell the last word "Gobbling"?
THE ECUADOR BONDHOLDER'S SONG.
Air—"Toréador."