Punch (86.1884)

February 16, 1884.] PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

“VERB. SAP.”

The Curate had been dining at the Rail, and the Squire sent him home in the Dog-cart. ’ Twas a bitter Night.
Sam (the Groom—as they neared the Village). “ If ye please, Sir, will ye pijt nae Watter in’t ! ”

up on a charge of gaming that has promoted idleness and led yon to
avaricious ways. This is the fifty-first test-case I’ve had to-day.
No fuss. You ’ll come along with me!

[Whistles for fifteen Policemen, who enter and handcuff him as
Act Drop falls.

ACT II.

Scene— A little Back-Parlour in the Suburbs, thirty years after-
wards. Aged Broken-down ex-Stockbroker and Sad, Serious, and
Experienced Wife discovered awaiting the arrival of homely
neighbours to tea.

Aged Broken-down ex-Stockbroker. Ah! my dear ! That fifteen
vears at Portland sobered me a good dealand the next spell I got
for winning that'Club Sweepstake took it out of me. Still. I am
thankful to say I am alive; and, though much shattered, I look
forward to this quiet, innocent rubber with all the early and hot
fervour of my youth. (Brightening.) We play, you know, for
halfpenny points.

Sad, Serious, and Experienced Wife. Halfpenny points! Oh,
Epaminondas. beware! Think of the law, and be careful where
you draw the line. Pause ! If you must play, oh, let your game be
the harmless “ beggar-mv-neighbour ” of your childish years,—your
stakes its simple, but sufficing, lemon-drops!

Aged Broken-down ex-Stockbroker. Never! Still, like the old
war-horse, I scent the battle of my braver days. The Stock
Exchange, the turf, the eighteenpenny pool are gone—but yet I have
the cards! I might perhaps find better work to do ;—but, what of
that F I ’ll risk a rubber, come what may! Ha ! here they are !

Enter Three Old Fogies.

First Old Fogey. The usual thing ?

Second Old Fogey. Yes. Halfpenny points.

Third. Old Fogey. And something on the game ?

Aged Broken-down ex-Stockbroker. A farthing upon three ?

First Old Fogey. Agreed! {They play for an hour - and- a-half.
A halfpenny changes hands. He rises, and throws off his disguise.)
Ha! ha! Have you again! My warrant! (Produces it.) I am

the agent of the Incautious Spendthrift and Luxurious Idiot Protec-
tion Association. This is a test-case. You ’ll come along with me.

[.Handcuffs Aged Broken-down ex-Stockbroker.

Aged Broken-down ex-Stockbroker. Nay, mercy; but how is this F
I am not avaricious. See, there are tea and muffins for you all—nor
idle-

First Old Fogey. Enough! That’s not the point. You might
be otherwise employed to the advantage of the country,—and shall be
—[seizes him)— upon the treadmill !

[They disappear in blue fire, as Curtain falls.

N.B.—Mr. Punch begs to state that he is not responsible for the subtle
lesson conveyed in the above Tragedy, a solution of which can only be
obtained, on application, from the worthy Chief Magistrate, at Bow Street,

GALES.

An Unparliamentary Rondeau.

Gales, with your bails of bats, and other tiles,

Your whirling windows and your flying- shutters,

Your playing pile on face with ancient piles,

Your rocking roof-trees, and your roaring gutters ;

At least there is more wholesome heart than art in

Your boisterous play with leaves, and stones, and sails,
Gamesters who go in for no false Saint Martin—

Gales !

But, ah, those other gales the season ushers
In, hybrid hurricanes mixed up with fogs,

Storms that hurt heads, not hats, uproarious crushers
Of truths, not trees—of logic, not of logs !

Ah, tea-cup tempests, shadowy, shambling, shabby,

Here howl the emptiest winds, the vainest wails,—

The People’s Servants’ Hall, Westminster Abi—

Gails!