Chief Steward. Nay, speak not — I can read your looks! Your poor pale face, your piteous eyes, tell me that you, too, have been robbed of everything. You have lost the wedding-gift of your wife, the cherished love-locks of your
little ones! (Weeps. ) Ah, sad, sad, sad! (With a tremendous burst of passion. ) But vengeance! I swear that —
Second Passenger. Never mind that. Steward! Help me! I die!
Chief Steward (compassionately). Nay, put a good face upon it, fair Sir. Let me call you Messmate. All — all — all shall be restored to ye, Messmate! (Looking off. ) Ah! At last!
Enter to slow music, languidly, Mysterious Traveller. He wears an enormous cloak and a slouch hat, and is deathly pale. As he sinks listlessly upon a couch the Chief Steward approaches him and touches him lightly on the shoulder. Thunder — lightning.
Mysterious Traveller (starts feebly, and then murmurs). Steward!
Chief Steward (aside, threatening him). Miserable man! (Aloud — politely. ) You called me, Sir?
Mysterious Traveller (bewildered). Did I? Ah! Yes! The storm! The raging sea! I think I am going to die! (Thunder — lightning. ) Oh!
Chief Steward (sternly). Have you anything to say to me, then? Have you nothing to confess?
Mysterious Traveller (speaking as if in a trance). I will confess everything (thunder) — anything (lightning) — if you will only —
Chief Steward (taking out note-book and listening intently). Yes, Sir! Only too pleased to do anything for you, Sir! (Aside. ) Abandoned creature!
Mysterious Traveller (gasping). You — will — find — bottle of brandy — in righthand pocket!
[Awful thunder-clap. Feeble cries of terror from the deck above. Chief Steward. Ah! then I was not mistaken!
Slow Music. The Chief Steward searches the Mysterious Traveller, and finds upon his person a miscellaneous collection of purses, handbags, and other valuables. He seizes him. The storm rages wildly. Fresh shouts. The struggle continues. Mysterious Traveller is pulled about like a log of wood.
Chief Steward. Nay, you do not escape me! You are my prisoner!
Mysterious Traveller (making a last feeble attempt to free himself). Let me
go! You shall not take me! Unless you will promise to throw me overboard!
can bear the storm no longer! Oh, that we were on land! (Groans — then faintly. ) Who are you?
Chief Steward. Who am I, William de Sikes? (Hurriedly throwing off his disguise and handcuffing his prisoner). Why —
Sugar and Spice.
During all the late discussion concerning the treatment proper for “juvenile offenders, ” the delinquents so denominated have been deemed as a matter of course to mean little boys. It appears to have been taken for granted that, amongst juvenile offenders, there are practically no little girls. If such is the fact, it very decidedly shows which sex is really, by nature, by far the better half of mankind.
THE LAY OF THE LAST LODGER.
I.
H dreary, dreary,
dreary me!
My jaw is sore with
yawning —
I’m weary of the
dreary sea,
With its roaring
beach
Where sea-gulls
screech,
And shrimpers
shrimp,
And limpets limp, And winkles wink,
And trousers shrink; And the groaning,
moaning, dron
ing tide
Goes splashing and dashing from side to side, With all its might, from morn to night,
And from night to morning’s dawning.
II.
The shore’s a flood of puddly mud,
And the rocks are limy and slimy —
And I ’ve tumbled down with a thud — good lud! — And I fear I swore,
For something tore;
And my shoes are full Of the stagnant pool;
And hauling, sprawling, crawling crabs
Have got in my socks with starfish and dabs;
And my pockets are swarming with polypes and
prawns,
And noisome beasts with shells and horns, That scrunch and scrape, and goggle and gape, Are up my sleeve, I firmly believe —
And I’m horribly rimy and grimy.
III.
I’m sick of the strand, and the sand, and the band,
And the niggers and jiggers and dodgers; And the cigars of rather doubtful brand; And my landlady’s “rights, ” And the frequent lights On wretched points Of ends of joints,
Which disappear, with my brandy and beer, In a way that, to say the least, is queer. And to mingle among the throng I long,
And to poke my joke and warble my song — But there’s no one near On sands or pier,
For everyone’s gone and I’m left alone, The Last of the Sea-side Lodgers!
Curious Coincidence.
(From a Duke to a Common Councilman. ) Dear J. T. B.,
Delighted to find you sticking up for the Obstruction on the old Temple Bar site. Capital. When Obstructionist meets Obstructionist, they must foregather. Your name’s Bedford. So’s mine. Have you
a Btrawberry-mark on your left arm? Are you my Long-lost brother? Bless you! Go on and obstruct.
Yours, ever,
Mud-Salad Palace, W. C. Bedford.
On a Recent Change of Name. Money takes the name of Coutts —
Superfluous, and funny;
As everyone considered Coutts Synonymous with Money.
Fiction fob Freemasons. — A Tale of Bricks.
I am Hawkshaw, the Detective!
Loud Music in the Orchestra, Tableaux and Curtain.
little ones! (Weeps. ) Ah, sad, sad, sad! (With a tremendous burst of passion. ) But vengeance! I swear that —
Second Passenger. Never mind that. Steward! Help me! I die!
Chief Steward (compassionately). Nay, put a good face upon it, fair Sir. Let me call you Messmate. All — all — all shall be restored to ye, Messmate! (Looking off. ) Ah! At last!
Enter to slow music, languidly, Mysterious Traveller. He wears an enormous cloak and a slouch hat, and is deathly pale. As he sinks listlessly upon a couch the Chief Steward approaches him and touches him lightly on the shoulder. Thunder — lightning.
Mysterious Traveller (starts feebly, and then murmurs). Steward!
Chief Steward (aside, threatening him). Miserable man! (Aloud — politely. ) You called me, Sir?
Mysterious Traveller (bewildered). Did I? Ah! Yes! The storm! The raging sea! I think I am going to die! (Thunder — lightning. ) Oh!
Chief Steward (sternly). Have you anything to say to me, then? Have you nothing to confess?
Mysterious Traveller (speaking as if in a trance). I will confess everything (thunder) — anything (lightning) — if you will only —
Chief Steward (taking out note-book and listening intently). Yes, Sir! Only too pleased to do anything for you, Sir! (Aside. ) Abandoned creature!
Mysterious Traveller (gasping). You — will — find — bottle of brandy — in righthand pocket!
[Awful thunder-clap. Feeble cries of terror from the deck above. Chief Steward. Ah! then I was not mistaken!
Slow Music. The Chief Steward searches the Mysterious Traveller, and finds upon his person a miscellaneous collection of purses, handbags, and other valuables. He seizes him. The storm rages wildly. Fresh shouts. The struggle continues. Mysterious Traveller is pulled about like a log of wood.
Chief Steward. Nay, you do not escape me! You are my prisoner!
Mysterious Traveller (making a last feeble attempt to free himself). Let me
go! You shall not take me! Unless you will promise to throw me overboard!
can bear the storm no longer! Oh, that we were on land! (Groans — then faintly. ) Who are you?
Chief Steward. Who am I, William de Sikes? (Hurriedly throwing off his disguise and handcuffing his prisoner). Why —
Sugar and Spice.
During all the late discussion concerning the treatment proper for “juvenile offenders, ” the delinquents so denominated have been deemed as a matter of course to mean little boys. It appears to have been taken for granted that, amongst juvenile offenders, there are practically no little girls. If such is the fact, it very decidedly shows which sex is really, by nature, by far the better half of mankind.
THE LAY OF THE LAST LODGER.
I.
H dreary, dreary,
dreary me!
My jaw is sore with
yawning —
I’m weary of the
dreary sea,
With its roaring
beach
Where sea-gulls
screech,
And shrimpers
shrimp,
And limpets limp, And winkles wink,
And trousers shrink; And the groaning,
moaning, dron
ing tide
Goes splashing and dashing from side to side, With all its might, from morn to night,
And from night to morning’s dawning.
II.
The shore’s a flood of puddly mud,
And the rocks are limy and slimy —
And I ’ve tumbled down with a thud — good lud! — And I fear I swore,
For something tore;
And my shoes are full Of the stagnant pool;
And hauling, sprawling, crawling crabs
Have got in my socks with starfish and dabs;
And my pockets are swarming with polypes and
prawns,
And noisome beasts with shells and horns, That scrunch and scrape, and goggle and gape, Are up my sleeve, I firmly believe —
And I’m horribly rimy and grimy.
III.
I’m sick of the strand, and the sand, and the band,
And the niggers and jiggers and dodgers; And the cigars of rather doubtful brand; And my landlady’s “rights, ” And the frequent lights On wretched points Of ends of joints,
Which disappear, with my brandy and beer, In a way that, to say the least, is queer. And to mingle among the throng I long,
And to poke my joke and warble my song — But there’s no one near On sands or pier,
For everyone’s gone and I’m left alone, The Last of the Sea-side Lodgers!
Curious Coincidence.
(From a Duke to a Common Councilman. ) Dear J. T. B.,
Delighted to find you sticking up for the Obstruction on the old Temple Bar site. Capital. When Obstructionist meets Obstructionist, they must foregather. Your name’s Bedford. So’s mine. Have you
a Btrawberry-mark on your left arm? Are you my Long-lost brother? Bless you! Go on and obstruct.
Yours, ever,
Mud-Salad Palace, W. C. Bedford.
On a Recent Change of Name. Money takes the name of Coutts —
Superfluous, and funny;
As everyone considered Coutts Synonymous with Money.
Fiction fob Freemasons. — A Tale of Bricks.
I am Hawkshaw, the Detective!
Loud Music in the Orchestra, Tableaux and Curtain.