The Damsel (disgusted).  Fancy their puttin’ up a monument to ’im!

Superior ’Arry (talking Music-halls to his Adored One).  ’Ave you ’eard her sing “Come where the Booze is Cheapest”?

The Adored.  Lots o’ toimes.  I do like ’er singing.  She mykes sech comical soigns—­and then the things she sez!  But I’ve ’eard she’s very common in her tork, and that—­orf the styge.

The S.A. I shouldn’t wonder.  Some on ’em are that way.  You can’t ’ave everythink!

His Adored.  No, it is a pity, though.  ’Spose we go out, and pl’y Kiss in the Ring? [They do.

AMONG THE ETHNOLOGICAL MODELS.

Wife of British Workman (spelling out placard under Hottentot Group).  “It is extremely probable that this interesting race will be completely exterminated at no very distant period.”  Pore things!

British Workman (with philosophy).  Well, I shan’t go inter mournin’ for ’em, SAIRER!

[Illustration]

Lambeth Larrikin (in a pasteboard “pickelhaube,” and a false nose, thoughtfully, to BATTERSEA BILL, who is wearing an old grey chimney-pot hat, with the brim uppermost, and a tow wig, as they contemplate a party of Botocudo natives).  Rum the sights these ’ere savidges make o’ theirselves, ain’t it, BILL?

Batt.  Bill (more thoughtfully).  Yer right—­but I dessay if you and me ’ad been born among that lot, we shouldn’t care ’ow we looked!

Vauxhall Voilet (who has exchanged headgear with CHELSEA CHORLEY—­with dismal results).  They are cures those blackies!  Why, yer carn’t ’ardly tell the men from the wimmin!  I expect this lot’ll be ‘aving a beanfeast.  See, they’re plyin’ their myusic.

Chelsea Chorley.  Good job we can’t ’ear ’em.  They say as niggers’ music is somethink downright horful.  Give us “Hi-tiddly-hi” on that mouth-orgin o’ yours, will yer?

    [VAUXHALL VOILET obliges on that instrument; everyone in
    the neighbourhood begins to jig mechanically; exeunt party,
    dancing.

A Pimply Youth.  “Hopium-eater from Java.”  That’s the stuff they gits as stoopid as biled howls on—­it’s about time we went and did another beer. [They retire for that purpose.

DURING THE FIREWORKS.

Chorus of Spectators.  There’s another lot o’ bloomin’ rockets gowin orf!  Oo-oo, ’ynt that lur-uvly?  What a lark if the sticks come down on somebody’s ’ed!  There, didyer see ’em bust?  Puts me in mind of a shower o’ foiry smuts.  Lor, so they do—­what a fancy you do ’ave, &c., &c.

COMING HOME.