A Bolder Spirit (with interest).  Are your feet warm?

She.  Quite—­thanks.

The Showman.  How old are you, She?

She (impressively).  Two theousand years.

’Arry. And quite a young thing, too!

A Spectator (who has read the Novel).  ’Ave you ’eard from LEO VINCEY lately?

She (coldly).  I don’t know the gentleman.

Showman.  If you have no more questions to ask her, She will now retire into her urn, thanking you all for your kind attendance this morning, which will conclude the entertainment.

    [Final disappearance of She. The Audience pass out,
    feeling—­with perfect justice—­that they have “had their
    money’s worth."

* * * * *

HOW IT’S DONE.

A HAND-BOOK OF HONESTY.

NO.  III.—­GRANDMOTHERLY GOVERNMENT.

    SCENE I.—­St. Stephen’s. Sagacious Legislator on his legs
    advocating a new Anti-Adulteration Act.  Few M.P.’s present,
    most of them drowsing.

Sagacious Legislator.  As I was saying, Sir, the adulteration of Butter has been pushed to such abominable lengths that no British Workman knows whether what he is eating is the product of the Cow or of the Thames mud-banks. (A snigger.) Talk of a Free Breakfast Table!  I would free the Briton’s Breakfast Table from the unwholesome incubus of Adulteration.  At any rate, if the customer chooses to purchase butter which is not butter, he shall do it knowingly, with his eyes open. (Feeble “Hear, hear!") Under this Act anything which is not absolutely unsophisticated milk-made Butter must be plainly marked, and openly vended as Adipocerene!

[Illustration]

    [Amidst considerable applause the Act is passed.

SCENE II.—­Small Butterman’s shop in a poor neighbourhood.  Burly white-apron’d Proprietor behind counter.  To him enter a pasty-faced Workman, with a greasy pat of something wrapped in a leaf from a ledger.

Workman. I say, Guv’nor, lookye here.  This ’ere stuff as you sold my old woman, is simply beastly.  I don’t believe it’s butter at all.

Butterman (sneeringly).  And who said it was?  What did your Missus buy it as?

Workman.  Why, Adipo—­whot’s it, I believe.  But that’s only another name for butter of a cheaper sort, ain’t it?  Anyhow, it’s no reason why it should be nasty.

Butterman (loftily).  Now look here, my man, what do you expect?  That’s Adipocerene, that is, and sold as such.  If you’ll pay for Butter, you can have it; but if you ask for this here stuff, you must take yer chance.

Workman.  But what’s it made on?

Butterman.  That’s no business of mine.  If you could anerlyse it—­(mind, I don’t say yer could)—­into stale suet and sewer-scrapings, you couldn’t prove as it warn’t Adipocerene, same as it’s sold for, could yer?