Ed. (still aggrieved).  I know for a fact that I didn’t so much as leave my chair, and to say I danced, ANGELINA!

Ang. (eagerly).  But I don’t.  I remember now, you sat perfectly still the whole time, he—­he said he could do nothing with you, don’t you recollect? (Aside.) Oh, what stories I’m telling!

Ed. (with recovered dignity).  Of course I recollect—­perfectly.  Well, ANGELINA, I’m not annoyed, of course, darling; but another time, you should really try to observe more closely what is done and who does it—­before making all this fuss about nothing.

Ang. But you won’t go and be mesmerised again, EDWIN—­not after this?

Ed. Well, you see, as I always said, it hasn’t the slightest effect on me.  But from what I observed, I am perfectly satisfied that the whole thing is a fraud.  All those other fellows were obviously accomplices, or they’d never have gone through such absurd antics—­would they now?

Ang. (meekly).  No, dear, of course not.  But don’t let’s talk any more about it.  There are so many things it’s no use trying to explain.

* * * * *

HOW IT’S DONE.

(A HAND-BOOK TO HONESTY.)

NO.  VII.—­SELLING A HORSE.

[Illustration]

SCENE I.—­A Horse-Sale.  Inexperienced Person, in search of a cheap but sound animal for business purposes, looking on in a nervous and undecided manner, half tempted to bid for the horse at present under the hammer.  To him approaches a grave and closely-shaven personage, in black garments, of clerical cut, a dirty-white tie, and a crush felt hat.

Clerical Gent.  They are running that flea-bitten grey up pretty well, are they not.  Sir?

Inexperienced Person.  Ahem! ye-es, I suppose they are.  I—­er—­was half thinking of bidding myself, but it’s going a bit beyond me, I fear.

C.G. Ah, plant, Sir—­to speak the language of these horsey vulgarians—­a regular plant!  You are better out of it, believe me.

I.P. In-deed!  You don’t say so?

C.G. (sighing).  Only too true.  Sir.  Why—­(in a gush of confidence)—­look at my own case.  Being obliged to leave the country, and give up my carriage, I put my horse into this sale, at a very low reserve of twenty pounds. (Entre nous, it’s worth at least double that.) Between the Auctioneer, and a couple of rascally horse-dealers—­who I found out, by pure accident, wanted my animal particularly for a match pair—­the sale of my horse is what they call “bunnicked up.” Then they come to me, and offer me money.  I spot their game, and am so indignant that I’ll have nothing to do with them, at any price.  Wouldn’t sell dear old Bogey, whom my wife and children are so fond of, to such brutal blackguards, on any consideration.  No, Sir, the horse has done me good service—­a sounder nag never walked on four hoofs; and I’d rather sell it to a good, kind master, for twenty pounds, aye, or even eighteen, than let these rascals have it, though they have run up as high as thirty q——­, ahem! guineas.