[Murmurs from the crowd, at Whom Mrs. Lemmy is blandly smiling.]

You cawn’t git below ’er—­impossible!  She’s the foundytions of the country—­an’ rocky ’yn’t the word for ’em.  Worked ’ard all ’er life, brought up a family and buried ’em on it.  Twelve bob a week, an’ given when ’er fingers goes, which is very near.  Well, naow, this torf ‘ere comes to me an’ says:  “I’d like to do somefin’ for yer muvver.  ’Ow’s ten bob a week?” ’e says.  Naobody arst ’im—­quite on ’is own.  That’s the sort ’e is. [Sinking his voice confidentially] Sorft.  You bring yer muvvers ’ere, ’e’ll do the syme for them.  I giv yer the ’int.

Voice. [From the crowd] What’s ’is nyme?

Lemmy.  They calls ’im Bill.

Voice.  Bill What?

L. Anne.  Dromondy.

Lady W. Anne!

Lemmy.  Dromedary ’is nyme is.

Voice. [From the crowd] Three cheers for Bill Dromedary.

Lemmy.  I sy, there’s veal an’ ‘am, an’ pork wine at the back for them as wants it; I ‘eard the word passed.  An’ look ’ere, if yer want a flag for the revolution, tyke muvver’s trahsers an’ tie ’em to the corfin.  Yer cawn’t ‘ave no more inspirin’ banner.  Ketch! [He throws the trousers out] Give Bill a double-barrel fast, to show there’s no ill-feelin’.  Ip, ’ip!

     [The crowd cheers, then slowly passes away, singing at a hoarse
     version of the Marseillaise, till all that is heard is a faint
     murmuring and a distant barrel-organ playing the same tune.]

Press. [Writing] “And far up in the clear summer air the larks were singing.”

Lord W. [Passing his heard over his hair, and blinking his eyes] James!  Ready?

James.  Me Lord!

L. Anne.  Daddy!

Lady W. [Taking his arm] Bill!  It’s all right, old man—­all right!

Lord W. [Blinking] Those infernal larks!  Thought we were on the Somme again!  Ah!  Mr. Lemmy, [Still rather dreamy] no end obliged to you; you’re so decent.  Now, why did you want to blow us up before dinner?

Lemmy.  Blow yer up? [Passing his hand over his hair in travesty]
“Is it a dream?  Then wykin’ would be pyne.”

Mrs. Lemmy.  Bo-ob!  Not so saucy, my boy!

Lemmy.  Blow yet up?  Wot abaht it?

Lady W. [Indicating the bomb] This, Mr. Lemmy!

     [Lemmy looks at it, and his eyes roll and goggle.]

Lord W. Come, all’s forgiven!  But why did you?

Lemmy.  Orl right!  I’m goin’ to tyke it awy; it’d a-been a bit ork’ard for me.  I’ll want it to-mower.

Lord W. What!  To leave somewhere else?

Lemmy.  ’Yus, of course!

Lord W. No, no; dash it!  Tell us what’s it filled with?