The O.G..  If this abominable noise goes on, I shall call the guard—­disgraceful, coming in drunk like this!

The Man by the Window.  ’Ere, dry up, Guv’nor—­’e ain’t ’ad enough to ’urt ’im, ’e ain’t!

Chorus of Females (to O.G.).  An’ Bank ’Oliday, too—­you orter to be ashimed o’ yerself, you ought!  ’E’s as right as right, if you on’y let him alone!

Old Fred (to O.G.).  Ga-arn, yer pore-’arted ole choiner boy! (Says, dismally), “Ow! for the vanished Spring-time!  Ow! for the dyes gorn boy!  Ow! for the”—­(changing the melody)—­“’omeless, I wander in lonely distress.  No one ter pity me—­none ter caress!” (Here he sheds tears, overcome by his own pathos, but presently cheers up.) “I dornce all noight!  An’ I rowl ’ome toight!  I’m a rare-un at a rollick, or I’m ready fur a foight.”  Any man ’ere wanter foight me?  Don’t say no, ole Frecklefoot! (To the O.G., who perspires freely.) Oh, I am enj’yin’ myself! [He keeps up this agreeable rattle, without intermission, for the remainder of the journey, which—­as the train stops everywhere, and takes quite three-quarters of an hour in getting from Queen’s Road, Battersea, to Victoria—­affords a signal proof of his social resources, though it somewhat modifies the O.G.’s enthusiasm for the artless gaiety of a Bank Holiday.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  THE FESTIVE FORCEPS.

(A Dream of the Dentist’s Chair.)]

* * * * *

“ON THE SQUARE.”

  “A CHEQUE-MATE’s a husband who’s found a good catch,”
    So lisp rosy lips that romance little reck. 
  Yes, and many a close “matrimonial” match
    Is won by “perpetual cheque.”

* * * * *

AN ’UMBLE CORRECTION.

In “The New Yachting,” a discursive paper, pleasantly written by Sir MORELL MACKENZIE, M.D., in The Fortnightly for this month, the author quotes a verse from the old song of “Jim Collins,” or, as he writes it, “John Collins” (by way of proving that the drink known by that name was originated by this individual) but quotes it, to the best of our knowledge and belief, inaccurately.  It was set to the air of “Jenny Jones,” and thus it ran:—­

  “My name is JIM COLLINS,
    ‘Ead-vaiter at Limmers’,
  The corner of Conduck Street,
    ’Anover Square.

  “And my hokkipashun
    Is sarvin’ out liquors
  To such sportin’ covies
    As chance to come there.”

This, we venture to assert, savours more of the old bar and the ancient sanded floors, more of the by-gone Cider Cellars and extinct Vauxhall Gardens, more of the early mornings and late nights, more of the rough-and-ready “P.R.” times, than the veneered version for the drawing-room given us by Sir M.M., M.D.  We may be wrong, but—­we don’t think we are.