"Yes, I know. Old Morality's going to say what Government will do about Parnell Commission's Report; everybody anxious to know."
"It's not that, dear boy, not that," said our new Minister, in compassionate tone. "I have two questions to answer. First time, don't you know; everybody dying to see how it goes off; warrant you they shan't be disappointed."
Cobb the Curious came on with first interrogatory. All about fox-hunting and fox-hunters. Pretty to see Cobb, having submitted his question under ten sub-heads, place hands on knees and fix Minister with steady stare. Chaplin advanced to table with graceful carriage and confident bearing; produced with imposing flourish a sheaf of notes, foolscap size, stoutly sewn, apparently exceeding a dozen in number; began to read with practised elocutionary art; drew the covert, "so to speak," as T. W. Russell protests he said when telling the men of Manchester that William O'Brien must be taken by the throat. No draw; went to next covert—I mean turned over another folio. House began to murmur; Chaplin, accepting involuntary applause, read on with increased impressiveness and complacency; murmurs grew into shout. At view-halloa! fox started; fifth folio now reached; only seven more to read. Chaplin began to wish Goschen or Old Morality would go and fetch him glass of water. Cries from crowd grew louder. At last Chaplin, looking up, beheld, through astonished glasses, Opposition indulging in roar of contumely. Wouldn't have taken him more than quarter of an hour or twenty minutes to finish his few remarks, and yet a lot of miserable Members who didn't know a fox from a hare wouldn't let him go on! Struggled gallantly for some minutes; at last sat down; whole pages of his answer unrecited.
The Inquiring Cobb.
Speeches all night in continued Debate on the Address. Parnell has moved Amendment arraigning Balfour's administration in Ireland. William O'Brien, chancing to be out of prison, looks in and delivers fiery harangue in support of Amendment. But yesterday, Balfour, his gaoler; ordered his food; not too much of it and not full variety; fixed his hours of going to bed and getting up. Now prison-doors opened by lapse of time; O'Brien walks out through Westminster Hall into House of Commons; stands before Speaker on equal terms with his whilom gaoler, and scolds him magnificently. By-and-by Balfour will probably have his turn again, and O'Brien will be eating and drinking the bread and water of affliction. Meanwhile, storms at top of his voice, beats the air with long lean arm and clenched hand, and makes dumb dogs of English Members sad with musing on the inequalities of fortune, which has given these Irishmen the great gift of pointedly saying what they have at heart.
Business done.—Debate on Address.
The Cobden Club
Tuesday.—"Well," said Thomas Bayley Potter, sinking slowly into corner seat, grateful to find that Peter O'Brien was his neighbour, for Peter finds it possible to pack himself into a limited space and Thomas Bayley's proportions are roomy—"well it is nice to see how these old colleagues love one another. Come next April, I have sat in House man and boy for twenty-five years. Have found that on some pretext, on one occasion or another, they are always at it, scratching each other's face, pulling one another's hair, or stabbing each other in the back. Why don't they all join the Cobden Club, sink minor differences, and be friends ever after?"