Voces Populi

The Rest. But you didn't seem to know how to begin, and we had to bring the Word in somehow.

Pushington. Bring it in? – but you needn't have let it out. There was Settee there, shouting "liar" till he was black in the face. We must have looked a set of idiots from the front. I sha'n't go in again (muttering). It's no use acting Charades with people who don't understand it. There; settle the Word yourselves!

AFTER THE WORD. AMONG THE AUDIENCE

General Murmur. What can it be? Not Turk, I suppose, or Magician? – Quarrelling? – Parnellite – Impertinence? Shall we give it up? No, they like us to guess, poor things; and besides, if we don't they'll do another; and it is getting so late, and such a long drive home. Oh, they're all coming back; then it is over. No, indeed, we can't imagine. "Familiar!" To be sure —how clever, and how well you all acted it, to be sure – you must be quite tired after it all. I am sure we– hem – are deeply indebted to you… My dear Miss Rose, how wonderfully you disguised yourself, I never recognized you a bit, nor you, Mr. Nightingale. What part did you take?

Mr. Nightingale. I – er – didn't take any particular part – wasn't wanted, you know.

Miss Rose. Not to act, – so we stayed outside and – and – arranged things.

An Old Lady. Indeed? Then you had all the hard work, and none of the pleasure, my dear, I'm afraid.

Miss Rose (sweetly). Oh no. I mean yes! – but we didn't mind it much.

The O. L. And which of you settled what the Word was to be?

Mr. N. Well, I believe we settled that together.

[Carriages are announced; departure of guests who are not of the house-party. In the Smoking-room, Mr. Pushington discovers that he does not seem exactly popular with the other men, and puts it down to jealousy

A Christmas Romp

Scene – Mrs. Chipperfield's Drawing-room. It is after the Christmas dinner, and the Gentlemen have not yet appeared. Mrs. C. is laboriously attempting to be gracious to her Brother's Fiancée, whose acquaintance she has made for the first time, and with whom she is disappointed. Married Sisters and Maiden Aunts confer in corners with a sleepy acidity

First Married Sister (to Second). I felt quite sorry for Fred, to see him sitting there, looking – and no wonder – so ashamed of himself – but I always will say, and I always must say, Caroline, that if you and Robert had been firmer with him when he was younger, he would never have turned out so badly! Now, there's my George – &c., &c.

Mrs. C. (to the Fiancée). Well, my dear, I don't approve of young men getting engaged until they have some prospect of being able to marry, and dear Algy was always my favourite brother, and I've seen so much misery from long engagements. However, we must hope for the best, that's all!

A Maiden Aunt (to Second Ditto). Exactly what struck me, Martha. One waiter would have been quite sufficient, and if James must be grand and give champagne, he might have given us a little more of it; I'm sure I'd little else but foam in my glass! And every plate as cold as a stone, and you and I the only people who were not considered worthy of silver forks, and the children encouraged to behave as they please, and Joseph Podmore made such a fuss with, because he's well off – and not enough sweetbread to go the round. Ah, well, thank goodness, we needn't dine here for another year!

Mr. Chipperfield (at the door). Sorry to cut you short in your cigar, Uncle, and you, Limpett; but fact is, being Christmas night, I thought we'd come up a little sooner and all have a bit of a romp… Well, Emily, my dear, here we are, all of us – ready for anything in the way of a frolic – what's it to be? Forfeits, games, Puss in the Corner, something to cheer us all up, eh? Won't any one make a suggestion?

[General expression of gloomy blankness

Algernon (to his Fiancée – whom he wants to see shine). Zeffie, you know no end of games – what's that one you played at home, with potatoes and a salt-spoon, you know?

Zeffie (blushing). No, please, Algy! I don't know any games, indeed, I couldn't really!

Mr. C. Uncle Joseph will set us going, I'm sure – what do you say, Uncle?

Uncle Joseph. Well, I won't say "no" to a quiet rubber.

Mrs. C. But, you see, we can't all play in that, and there is a pack of cards in the house somewhere; but I know two of the aces are gone, and I don't think all the court cards were there the last time we played. Still, if you can manage with what is left, we might get up a game for you.

Uncle J. (grimly). Thank you, my dear, but, on the whole, I think I would almost rather romp —

Mr. C. Uncle Joseph votes for romping! What do you say to Dumb Crambo? Great fun – half of us go out, and come in on all-fours, to rhyme to "cat," or "bat," or something —you can play that, Limpett?

Mr. Limpett. If I must find a rhyme to cat, I prefer, so soon after dinner, not to go on all-fours for it, I confess.

Mr. C. Well, let's have something quieter, then – only do settle. Musical Chairs, eh?

Algy. Zeffie will play the piano for you – she plays beautifully.

Zeffie. Not without notes, Algy, and I forgot to bring my music with me. Shall we play "Consequences"? It's a very quiet game – you play it sitting down, with paper and pencil, you know!

Mr. Limpett (sardonically, and sotto voce). Ah, this is something like a rollick now. "Consequences," eh?

Algy (who has overheard – in a savage undertone). If that isn't good enough for you, suggest something better – or shut up!

[Mr. L. prefers the latter alternative

Mr. C. Now, then, have you given everybody a piece of paper, Emily? Caroline, you're going to play – we can't leave you out of it.

Aunt Caroline. No, James, I'd rather look on, and see you all enjoying yourselves – I've no animal spirits now!

Mr. C. Oh, nonsense! Christmas-time, you know. Let's be jolly while we can – give her a pencil, Emily!

Aunt C. No, I can't, really. You must excuse me. I know I'm a wet blanket; but, when I think that I mayn't be with you another Christmas, we may most of us be dead by then, why – (sobs).

Fred (the Family Failure). That's right, Mater – trust you to see the humorous side of everything!

Another Aunt. For shame, Fred! If you don't know who is responsible for your poor mother's low spirits, others do!

[The Family Failure collapses

Mr. Limpett. Well, as we've all got pencils, is there any reason why the revelry should not commence?

Mr. C. No – don't let's waste any more time. Miss Zeffie says she will write down on the top of her paper "Who met whom" (must be a Lady and Gentleman in the party, you know), then she folds it down, and passes it on to the next, who writes, "What he said to her" – the next, "What she said to him" – next, "What the consequences were," and the last, "What the world said." Capital game – first-rate. Now, then!

[The whole party pass papers in silence from one to another, and scribble industriously with knitted brows

Mr. C. Time's up, all of you. I'll read the first paper aloud. (Glances at it, and explodes.) He-he! – this is really very funny. (Reads.) "Uncle Joseph met Aunt Caroline at the – ho – ho! – the Empire! He said to her, 'What are the wild waves saying!' and she said to him, 'It's time you were taken away!' The consequences were that they both went and had their hair cut, and the world said they had always suspected there was something between them!"

Uncle J. I consider that a piece of confounded impertinence!

[Puffs

Aunt C. It's not true. I never met Joseph at the Empire. I don't go to such places. I didn't think I should be insulted like this – (Weeps) – on Christmas too!

Aunts' Chorus. Fred again!

[They regard the Family Failure indignantly

Mr. C. There, there, it was all fun – no harm meant. I'll read the next. "Mr. Limpett met Miss Zeffie in the Burlington Arcade. He said to her, 'O, you little duck!' She said to him, 'Fowls are cheap to-day!' The consequences were that they never smiled again, and the world said, 'What price hot potatoes?'" (Everybody looks depressed.) H'm – not bad – but I think we'll play something else now.

[Zeffie perceives that Algy is not pleased with her

Tommy (to Uncle Joseph). Uncle, why didn't you carve at dinner?

Uncle J. Well, Tommy, because the carving was done at a side table – and uncommon badly done, too. Why do you want to know?

Tommy. Parpar thought you would carve, I know. He told Mummy she must ask you, because —

Mrs. C. (with a prophetic instinct). Now, Tommy, you mustn't tease your Uncle. Come away, and tell your new Aunt Zeffie what you're going to do with your Christmas boxes.

Tommy. But mayn't I tell him what Parpar said, first?

Mrs. C. No, no; by and by – not now! [She averts the danger.

[Later; the Company are playing "Hide the Thimble"; i.e., someone has planted that article in a place so conspicuous that few would expect to find it there. As each person catches sight of it, he or she sits down. Uncle Joseph is still, to the general merriment, wandering about and getting angrier every moment

Mr. C. That's it, Uncle, you're warm– you're getting warm!

Uncle J. (boiling over). Warm, Sir? I am warm – and something more, I can tell you! [Sits down with a bump.

Mr. C. You haven't seen it! I'm sure you haven't seen it. Come now, Uncle!

Uncle J. Never mind whether I have or have not. Perhaps I don't want to see it, Sir!

The Children. Then do you give it up? Do you want to be told? Why, it's staring you in the face all the time!

Uncle J. I don't care whether it's staring or not – I don't want to be told anything more about it.

The Children. Then you're cheating, Uncle – you must go on walking till you do see it!

Uncle J. Oh, that's it, eh? Very well, then – I'll walk!

[Walks out, leaving the company paralysed

Mrs. C. Run after him, Tommy, and tell him – quick!

[Exit Tommy

Mr. C. (feebly). I think when Uncle Joseph does come back, we'd better try to think of some game he can't lose his temper at. Ah, here's Tommy!

Tommy. I told him – but he went all the same, and slammed the door. He said I was to go back and tell you that you would find he was cut up – and cut up rough, too!

Mrs. C. But what did you tell him?

Tommy. Why, only that Parpar asked him to come to-night because he was sure to cut up well. You said I might!

[Sensation; Prompt departure of Tommy for bed; moralising by Aunts; a spirit of perfect candour prevails; names are called – also cabs; further hostilities postponed till next Christmas

On the Ice

Scene —The Serpentine. On the bank, several persons are having their skates put on; practised Skaters being irritable and impatient, and others curiously the reverse, at any delay in the operation

Chorus of Unemployed Skate-Fasteners. 'Oo'll 'ave a pair on for an hour? Good Sport to-day, Sir! Try a pair on, Mum! (to any particularly stout Lady). Will yer walk inter my porler, Sir? corpet all the w'y! 'Ad the pleasure o' puttin' on your skites last year, Miss! Best skates in London, Sir! [Exhibiting a primæval pair.

The Usual Comic Cockney (to his Friend, who has undertaken to instruct him). No 'urry, old man – this joker ain't arf finished with me yet! (To Skate-Fastener.) Easy with that jimlet, Guv'nor. My 'eel ain't 'orn, like a 'orse's 'oof! If you're goin' to strap me up as toight as all that, I shell 'ave to go to bed in them skites!.. Well, what is it now?

Skate-Fastener. Reg'lar thing fur Gen'lm'n as 'ires skates ter leave somethink be'ind, jest as security like —anythink'll do – a gold watch and chain, if yer got sech a thing about yer!

The C. C. Oh, I dessay – not me!

Skate-F. (wounded). Why, yer needn't be afroid! I shorn't run away – you'll find me 'ere when yer come back!

The C. C. Ah, that will be noice! But all the sime, a watch is a thing that slips out of mind so easy, yer know. You might go and forgit all about it. 'Ere's a match-box instead; it ain't silver!

Skate-F. (with respect). Ah, you do know the world, you do!

The C. C. Now, Alf, old man, I'm ready for yer! Give us 'old of yer 'and… Go slow now. What's the Vestry about not to put some gravel down 'ere? It's downright dangerous! Whoo-up! Blowed if I ain't got some other party's legs on!.. Sloide more? Whadjer torking about! I'm sloidin' every way at once, I am!.. Stroike out? I've struck sparks enough out of the back o' my 'ed, if that's all!.. Git up? Ketch me! I'm a deal syfer settin' dayown, and I'll sty 'ere! [He stays.

A Nervous Skater (hobbling cautiously down the bank – to Friend). I – I don't know how I shall be in these, you know – haven't had a pair on for years. (Striking out.) Well, come – (relieved) – skating's one of those things you never forget – all a question of poise and equi – confound the things! No, I'm all right, thanks – lump in the ice, that's all! As I was saying, skating soon comes back to – thought I was gone that time! Stick by me, old fellow, till I begin to feel my – Oh, hang it all!.. Eh? surely we have been on more than five minutes! Worst of skating is, your feet get so cold!.. These are beastly skates. Did you hear that crack? Well, you may stay on if you like, but I'm not going to risk my life for a few minutes' pleasure! [He returns to bank.

The Fond Mother (from bank, to Children on the ice). That's right. Alma, you're doing it beautifully– don't walk so much! (To French Governess). Alma fay bocoo de progray, may elle ne glisse assez – nayse par, Ma'amzell?

Mademoiselle. C'est Ella qui est la plus habile, elle patine dejà très bien – et avec un aplomb!

The F. M. Wee-wee; may Ella est la plus viaile, vous savvy. Look at Ella, Alma, and see how she does it!

Mad. Vous marchez toujours – toujours, Alma; tâchez donc de glisser un petit peu – c'est beaucoup plus facile!

Alma. Snay pas facile quand vous avez les skates toutes sur un côté – comme moi, Ma'amzell!

F. M. Ne repondy à Ma'amzell, Alma, and watch Ella!

Ella. Regardez-moi, Alma. Je puis voler vîte – oh, mais vîte … oh I have hurt myself so!

Alma (with sisterly sympathy.) That's what comes of trying to show off, Ella, darling! [Ella is helped to the bank.

A Paternal Skate-Fastener. 'Ere you are, Missie – set down on this 'ere cheer – and you, too, my little dear – lor, they won't do them cheers no 'arm, Mum, bless their little 'arts! Lemme tyke yer little skites orf, my pooties. I'll be keerful, Mum – got childring o' my own at 'ome – the moral o' your two, Mum!

The F. M. (to Governess). Sayt un homme avec un bong ker. Avez-vous – er – des cuivres, Ma'amzell?

The P. S. (disgustedly). Wot? – only two bloomin' browns fur tykin' the skites orf them two kids' trotters! I want a shellin' orf o' you fur that job, I do… "Not another penny?" Well, if you do everythink as cheap as you do yer skiting, you orter be puttin' money by, you ought! That's right, tyke them snivellin' kids 'ome – blow me if ever I – &c., &c., &c. [Exit party, pursued by powerful metaphors.

The Egotistic Skater (in charge of a small Niece). Just see if you can get along by yourself a little – I'll come back presently. Practise striking out.

The Niece. But, Uncle, directly I strike out, I fall down!

The E. S. (encouragingly). You will at first, till you get into it – gives you confidence. Keep on at it – don't stand about, or you'll catch cold. I shall be keeping my eye on you! [Skates off to better ice.

The Fancy Skater (to less accomplished Friend). This is a pretty figure – sort of variation of the "Cross Cut," ending up with "The Vine"; it's done this way (illustrating), quarter of circle on outside edge forwards; then sudden stop – (He sits down with violence). Didn't quite come off that time!

The Friend. The sudden stop came off right enough, old fellow!

The F. S. I'll show you again – it's really a neat thing when it's well done; you do it all on one leg, like this —

[Executes an elaborate back-fall

His Friend. You seem to do most of it on no legs at all, old chap!

The F. S. Haven't practised it lately, that's all. Now here's a figure I invented myself. "The Swooping Hawk" I call it.

His Friend (unkindly – as the F. S. comes down in the form of a St. Andrew's Cross). Y – yes. More like a Spread Eagle though, ain't it?

Pretty Girl (to Mr. Ackmey, who has been privileged to take charge of herself and her Plain Sister). Do come and tell me if I'm doing it right, Mr. Ackmey. You said you'd go round with me!

The Plain S. How can you be so selfish, Florrie? You've had ever so much more practice than I have! Mr. Ackmey, I wish you'd look at my left boot – it will go like that. Is it my ankle – or what? And this strap is hurting me so! Couldn't you loosen it, or take me back to the man, or something? Florrie can get on quite well alone, can't she?

Mr. A. (temporising feebly). Er – suppose I give each of you a hand, eh?

The Plain S. No; I can't go along fast, like you and Florrie. You promised to look after me, and I'm perfectly helpless alone!

The Pretty S. Then, am I to go by myself, Mr. Ackmey?

Mr. A. I – I think – just for a little, if you don't mind!

The Pretty S. Mind? Not a bit! There's Clara Willoughby and her brother on the next ring, I'll go over to them. Take good care of Alice, Mr. Ackmey. Good-bye for the present.

[She goes; Alice doesn't think Mr. A. is "nearly so nice as he used to be."

The Reckless Rough. Now then, I'm on 'ere. Clear the way, all of yer! Parties must look out fur themselves when they see me a comin', I carn't stop fur nobody!

[Rushes round the ring at a tremendous pace

An Admiring Sweeper (following his movements with enthusiasm). Theer he goes – the Ornimental Skyter! Look at 'im a buzzin' round! Lor, it's a treat to see 'im bowlin' 'em all over like a lot er bloomin' ninepins! Go it, ole Franky, my son – don't you stop to apollergise!.. Ah, there he goes on his nut agen! 'E don't care, not 'e!.. Orf he goes agin!.. That's another on 'em down, and ole Franky atop – 'e'll 'ave the ring all to 'isself presently! Up agin! Oh, ain't he lovely! I never see his loike afore nowheres… Round yer go – that's the stoyle! My eyes, if he ain't upset another – a lydy this time – she's done 'er skytin fur the d'y any 'ow! and ole Frank knocked silly… Well, I ain't larfed ser much in all my life! [He is left laughing.

In a Fog

(A Reminiscence of the Past Month.)Scene —Main thoroughfare near Hyde Park. Time 8 P.M. Nothing visible anywhere, but very much audible; horses slipping and plunging, wheels grinding, crashes, jolts, and English as she is spoke on such occasions

Mrs. Flusters (who is seated in a brougham with her husband, on their way to dine with some friends in Cromwell Road). We shall be dreadfully late, I know we shall! I'm sure Peacock could go faster than this if he liked – he always loses his head when there's much traffic. Do tell him to make haste!

Mr. F. Better let him alone – he knows what he's doing.

Mrs. F. I don't believe he does, or he wouldn't dawdle like this. If you won't speak to him, I must. (Lets down the glass and puts out her head.) Peacock!

A Blurred Shadow on the Box. Yes, M'm.

Mrs. F. What are we stopping for like this?

The Shadow. Fog very thick just 'ere, M'm. Can't see what's in front of us, M'm.

Mrs. F. It's just as safe to keep moving as to stand still – go on at once.

The S. Very good, M'm. (To horse.) Pull urp! [Crash!

Voice from the Unseen. What the blanky blank, &c.

Peacock. There is suthin in front, M'm. A van, from 'is langwich, M'm.

Mrs. F. (sinking back). Marmaduke, this is awful. I'd no idea the fog was like this – or I should never have – (With temper.) Really, people have no right to ask one out on such a night.

Mr. F. (with the common sense that makes him "so aggravating at times"). Well, Fanny, you could hardly expect 'em to foresee the weather three weeks ahead!

Mrs. F. At all events, you might have seen what it was going to be as you came home from the Temple. Then we could have sent a telegram!

Mr. F. It seemed to be lifting then, and besides, I – ah – regard a dinner-engagement as a species of kindly social contract, not to be broken except under pressing necessity.

Mrs. F. You mean you heard me say there was nothing but cold meat in the house, and you know you'll get a good dinner at the Cordon-Blewitts, – not that we are likely to get there to-night. Have you any idea whereabouts we are?

Mr. F. (calmly). None whatever.

Mrs. F. Then ask Peacock.

Mr. F. (lets down his window, and leans out). Peacock!

The Shadow. Sir?

Mr. F. Where have we got to now?

Peacock. I ain't rightly sure, Sir.

Mrs. F. Tell him to turn round, and go home.

Mr. F. It's no use going on like this. Turn back.

Peacock. I dursn't leave the kerb – all I got to go by, Sir.

Mr. F. Then take one of the lamps, and lead the horse.

Peacock. It's the young 'orse, Sir.

Mr. F. (sinking back). We must put up with it, I suppose.

[A smart crack is heard at the back of the carriage

More Voices. Now, then, why the blanky dash, &c., &c.

Mrs. F. Marmaduke, I can't sit here, and know that a bus-pole may come between us at any moment. Let us get out, and take a cab home at once.

Mr. F. There's only one objection to that suggestion – viz., that it's perfectly impossible to tell a cab from a piano-organ. We must find out where we are first, and then turn. Peacock, drive on as well as you can, and stop when you come to a shop.

Mrs. F. What do you want to stop at a shop for?

Mr. F. Why, then I can go in, and ask where we are.

Mrs. F. And how do you expect them to know where we are! (She sees a smear of light in the distance.) Marmaduke, there's a linkman. Get out quick, and hire him to lead the way.

Mr. F. (who gets out, and follows in the direction of the light, grumbling to himself). Hallo! – not past the park yet – here's the railings! Well, if I keep close to them, I shall – (He suddenly collides with a bench). Phew! Oh, confound it! (He rubs his shins.) Now, if it hadn't been for Fanny, I – Where's that linkman? Hi! – you there! – stop! (The light stops.) Look here – I want you to come to my carriage, and show my man the way out of this!

Voice From Behind the Railings. We got to find our own way out fust, Guv'nor. We're inside!

A Belated Reveller (lurching up to Mr. F.) Beg your pardon, bur cou' you dreck me nearesht way – er – Dawshon Plashe?

Mr. F. (savagely). First turning to the right, third to the left, and then straight on till you come to it!

The B. R. I'm exsheedingly 'blished; (confidentially) fact ish, I'm shuffrin' shli' 'fection eyeshi', an' I 'shure you, can't shee anyshing dishtingly to-ni'. (He cannons against a lamp-post, to which he clings affectionately, as a Policeman emerges from the gloom.)