A Dingy Man smoking, in a Van. Want to block up the ole o' the road, eh? That's right!
The Conductor (roused to personality). Go 'ome, Dirty DICK! syme old soign, I see,—"Monkey an' Pipe!" (To Coachman of smart brougham which is pressing rather closely behind.) I say, old man, don't you race after my bus like this—you'll only tire your 'orse.
[The Coachman affects not to have heard.
The Conductor (addressing the brougham horse, whose head is almost through the door of the omnibus). 'Ere, 'ang it all!—step insoide, if yer want to!
[Brougham falls to rear—triumph of Conductor as Scene closes.
IN THE KNOW.
(By Mr. Punch's Own Prophet.)
Readers of this journal will be surprised to learn that I am penning these lines from Blancheville, which as everybody, except the chief of the chowder-heads, knows is the most important town of one of the principal departments of France. Nothing but an overwhelming sense of what is due to myself, to my readers, and to my country, would have dragged me from the Metropolis at this season of the year. But a distinction was offered to me, a distinction so unique and so dazzling that I felt that it would not be fair to my fellow countrymen, of all ages, and of every party, if I failed to take advantage of it, and thus to present to the envious world the proud spectacle of an Englishman honoured by the great French nation. I will narrate the matter as briefly as is consistent with my respect for accuracy, and with my contempt for the tapioca-brained nincompoops who snarl, and chatter, and cackle at me in the organ of Mr. J. Last Friday I received this telegram:—