On either side of the circular Race-course, with its revolving metal horses, is a Green Table, divided into numbered squares, around which the Players, who are mostly English, are sitting or standing. A Croupier with his rake presides at each table. In an obscure corner of the balcony outside, Miss DAINTREE and her Married Sister have just established themselves. There is a Ball at the Casino, and the Orchestra are heard tuning up for the next dance.
The Married Sister. But SYLVIA, why have you dragged me out here to sit in the dark? I thought you were engaged for this?
Miss Daintree. So I am—to such a horrid little man. That’s why I fled. He won’t think of coming here after me!
The M.S. What made you give him a dance at all?
Miss D. JACK brought him up to me—so naturally I thought he was a dear friend of his, but it seems he only sat next to him at table d’hôte, and JACK says he pestered him so for an introduction, he had to do it—to get rid of him. So like a brother, wasn’t it?... Oh, AMY, he’s coming—what shall I do? I know he can’t dance a little bit! I watched him trying.
The M.S. Can’t you ask him to sit it out?
Miss D. That’s worse! Let’s hope he won’t notice us.—Ah—he has!
[Mr. CUBSON, a podgy young man with small eyes and a scrubby moustache, wearing a tailless evening-coat and a wrinkled white waistcoat, advances.
Mr. Cubson. Our dance, I believe? (The Orchestra strikes up.) Isn’t that the Pas de Quatre? To tell you the truth, I’m not very well up in these new steps, so I shall trust to you to pull me through—soon get into it, y’know.
Miss D. (to herself). If I could only get out of it! (She rises with a look of mute appeal to her Sister.) We can go through this room. (They pass into the Salle des Petits Chevaux.) Stop one minute—I just want to see which horse wins. Don’t you call this a fascinating game?
Mr. C. Well, I don’t understand the way they play it here—too complicated for me, you know!
Miss D. (to herself). Anything to gain time! (Aloud.) Oh, it’s quite simple—you just put your money down on any number you choose, and say “Sur le”—whatever it is, and, if it wins, you get seven times your stake.
Croupier. Tous sont payés—faites vos jeux, Messieurs,—les jeux sont partis!
Miss D. I know what I should do—I should back 7 this time. I’ve a presentiment he’ll win.
Mr. C. Then why don’t you back him?
Miss D. Because I don’t happen to have brought any money with me.
Mr. C. Oh, I daresay I can accommodate you with a franc or two, if that’s all.
Miss D. Thank you, I won’t trouble you: but do back him yourself, just to see if I’m not right.
Croupier. Les jeux sont faits. Rien ne va plus!
Mr. C. (throwing a franc on the table). Sur le sept! (To Miss D.) I say, he’s raked it in. What’s that for?
Miss D. For the Bank, or Charity, or something—they always do that if you stake too late.
Mr. C. Swindle, I call it. And I should have won, too—it is 7. I’ve had enough of this—suppose we go and dance?
Miss D. Why, you’re not going to give in already—after so nearly winning, too?
Mr. C. Ah, well, I’ll have just one more go—and then we’ll be off. I’m going to try the 9 this time. [He stakes.
Miss D. I should have gone on the 4—it’s time one of the even numbers won again.
Mr. C. Oh, would you? All right, then. (To Cr.) Pas sur le neuf—le quatre. (The Croupier transfers the franc to 4.) They’re off—can’t tell the winner yet. Now they’re slower—4’s good—4’s very good. See where he’s stopped, not an inch from the post! This isn’t half a bad game.
[A horse with a red flag at his head, labelled No. 9, creeps slowly up, and stops just ahead of 4.
Croupier. Neuf, impair, et rouge!
Mr. C. It’s 9 after all—and I backed him first. (In an injured tone.) I should have won if you hadn’t said that about 4!
Miss D. (with secret delight). I won’t advise any more. What are you going to back?
Mr. C. We really ought to be dancing—but I’ll try my luck once more on No. 4. I shall put on two francs this time.
Miss D. Shall you? How reckless! I heard someone say just now that No. 1 hasn’t won for a long time.
Mr. C. I took your advice once too often. There—4’s going to win—see how he’s going round—no, he’s passed.
[A horse with a yellow flag, labelled No. 1, stops close to the post.
Croupier. L’As, impair, et jaune!
Miss D. Didn’t I tell you so?
Mr. C. You only said I hadn’t won—not that he would. If you had spoken more plainly—! I don’t think much of this game—I’ve dropped four francs already. How about that dance?
Miss D. (ironically). It would be rather a pity to go away without getting all that money back, wouldn’t it?
Mr. C. (seriously). Perhaps it would. You’re sure you’re in no hurry about this dance?
Miss D. On the contrary!
Mr. C. Well, look here, I’m going to put on a five-franc piece this time—so be careful what you advise.
Miss D. Oh, I really couldn’t undertake such a responsibility.
Mr. C. I shall follow this man then, and back five. (He does; the horses spin round, and the race is won by a horse with a tricoloured flag labelled No. 5.) There, I’ve done it without you, you see. (The Croupier pushes a heap of ivory counters towards him, which he takes up with trembling hands.) I say, I scooped in thirty-five francs over that! Not bad, is it? I’m glad I waited!
Miss D. Yes, it’s better fun than dancing, isn’t it?
Mr. C. Oh, lots—at least I didn’t mean that quite—
Miss D. Didn’t you? I did. What are you going to back next?
Mr. C. Well, I must just have one more turn, and then we’ll go and get that dance over. I’m going to plunge this time. (He spreads his counters about the board.) There, I’ve put five francs on each colour and ten each on 8 and 9. You see, by hedging like that, you’re bound to pull off something!
Miss D. (as the horses spin round). All the yellow flags are out of it.
Mr. C. Doesn’t matter, 9’s red, and he’s going first-rate—nothing to beat him!
Miss D. Unless it’s 5, and then you lose. (No. 5 wins again.) How unfortunate for you. 5 generally does win twice running, somehow.
Mr. C. (with reproach). If you had thought of that a little sooner, I shouldn’t have lost twenty francs! (A player rises, and Mr. C. secures the vacant chair.) More comfortable sitting down. I must get that back before I go. I’ve got about twenty francs left, I’ll put five on yellow, and ten on 9. (He does. Croupier. “Deux, pair, et rouge!”) Only five left! I’ll back yellow again, as red won last. (He does. Croupier. “Quatre, pair, et rouge!” He turns to Miss D. for sympathy.) I say, did you ever see such beastly bad—? A Frenchman (behind him). Plaît-il? Mr. C. (confused). Oh, rien. I wasn’t speaking to you, M’soo. (To himself.) Where on earth has that girl got to? She might have waited! She’s gone back to the balcony! (He goes out in pursuit of her.) Oh, I say, Miss—er—DAINTREE, if you’re ready for that “Pas de Quatre,” I am. Hope I haven’t kept you waiting.
Miss D. (sweetly). Not’ in the very least. Are you sure you’ve quite finished playing?
Mr. C. As I’ve lost all I’d won and a lot on the top of that, I should rather think I had finished playing.
Miss D. So has the Orchestra—quite a coincidence, isn’t it? You were so absorbed, you see!—No, I won’t keep you out here, thanks; my sister will take care of me.
Mr. C. (to himself, as he departs rather sheepishly). I’ve offended that girl—I could see she was wild at missing that Barn Dance. I wish I had danced it, I’m sure,—it would have saved me several francs. It was all her own fault. However, I’ll ask her for a waltz another evening, and make it up to her that way. Confound those Petits Chevaux!
Miss D. AMY, he’s gone,—and I haven’t danced and I haven’t sat out with him—and he can’t’ say it’s my fault either! (She kisses her hand to the Petits Chevaux inside.) Thanks, ever so much, you dear little beasts!
In Vestminster not long ago there dvelt a lad named JOEY;
He vos not raised in Vestminster, but in a place more goey.
At snaring birds he vos a dab, of eggs (and plots) a hatcher;
And he vos called young Vistling JOE, the Brummagem Birdcatcher.
Young JOE of Grand Old VILL-I-AM, at fust vos pal most chummy,
But second fiddle vos not quite the instrument for Brummy.
Says he, “Old VILL vants his own vay, the vicked old vote-snatcher!
But that arrangement vill not suit the Brummagem Birdcatcher!
“I am as artful, qvite, as he, and much more young and active;
I’ve a sweet vistle of my own the birds find most attractive.
My nets may be unauthorised, and my decoys not his’n;
Vot odds, ven those decoys vill draw, those nets the birds imprison?
“VILLIAM’s a old Monopolist, or vould be if I’d let him;
But on this here pertikler field I’ll lick him, that I’ll bet him.
I am a cove as hates the Nobs; I dearly loves my neighbour;
And if I have a feeling heart it is for Honest Labour!
“VILLIAM’s decoys are out of date but ven I’d shake and rummage’em
He gets his back up like a shot. He’s jealous of Young Brummagem!
I’ll set up on my own account; and I’ve a new half dozen
Of nice decoys vich I am sure the shyest birds vill cozen.
“I am not arter nightingales, the pappy poet’s darlings,
I’m qvite content vith blackbirds brisk, and even busy starlings.
The birds vot delve, vot track the plough, vot vatch the rustic thatcher,
Are good enough—in numbers—for the Brummagem Birdcatcher.
“VILLIAM may lure his Irish larks, and redpoles, tits, and finches,
Good British birds vill do for me. I’m vun as never flinches
From spreading of my nets all vide; vot comes I can’t determine,
But I don’t care for carrion-birds, I looks on ’em as wermin!
“And so I ups and spreads my nets. Vot if the birds see plainly?
My vistle is so vondrous sveet, I shall not spread ’em wainly,
Then, my decoys! Ah! them’s the boys! In patience and in skill I am
The cove to catch a big bird-batch, and qvite a match for VILL-I-AM!”
Old VILLIAM and young Vistling JOE are rivals, vot vere pardners!
And some vill back the Brummyites, and some the Grand Old Harward’ners;
But vichsoever from the fight of victory be the snatcher,
The Midlands own a champion in the Brummagem Birdcatcher.
Mrs. Gusher. “OH, GOOD-BYE, SIR JOHN. SO SORRY NOT TO HAVE FOUND YOUR MOST CHARMING WIFE AT HOME.”
Sir John. “THANKS—THANKS! BY THE WAY, LET ME ASSURE YOU I’VE ONLY GOT ONE,—AND—”
“A ROYAL LINE” (IN THE BILLS).—The successor to King Henry the Eighth (at the Lyceum) will be King Lear the First. “Le Roi est mort! Vive le Roi!”
The Baron pauses in the midst of his varied literary and philosophic studies to look into No. 46, Vol. iv., Part ii., of Our Celebrities, a publication which has been admirably conducted by the late and the present Count ASTRORÓG, which is the title, when he is at home, of the eminent photographer and proprietor of the Walery-Gallery. First comes life-like portrait of the stern Sir EDWARD W. WATKIN, on whose brow Time, apparently, writes no wrinkles, though Sir EDWARD could put most of us up to a few. Nor, strange to say, are there any lines on his countenance, probably because he has so many other lines, existing and contemplated, in his eye.
But ’tis not alone thy inky cloak, good Sir EDWARD, that attracts the Baron, nor is it the business-like profile of THOMAS DE GREY, sixth Lord Walsingham, Chairman of the Ensilage Committee, that gives the Baron matter for special admiration; but it is the perfectly charming portrait of “‘DAISY PLESS’ H.S.H. the Princess HENRY OF PLESS,” which rivets the Baron’s attention, and causes him to exclaim, “She is pretty, Pless her!” Miss CORNWALLIS WEST, but now a DAISY, now a Princess, came up as a flower at Ruthin Castle, and “in 1891 Prince HENRY OF PLESS,” says the brief narrative written by A. BULL (an example of “a bull and no mistake”) “wooed and won the beauty of the Season,”—lucky ’ARRY PLESS!—and then Prince ’ARRY took his bride to Furstenstein, in Silesia, “a fine schloss, with beautiful gardens and terraces,”—in short, “a Pleasaunce.” Count ASTRORÓG may do, as he has done, many excellent photographic portraits, but this one will be uncommonly “hard to beat,” and King of Photographers as he seems to be, it is not every day that he has so charming a subject as Princess DAISY presented to him. Receive, Count ASTRORÓG-WALERY, of the Walery-Gallery, without any raillery, the congratulations most sincere of the
First Player (who has had a run of ill-luck). I’m regularly haunted by the recollection of my losses at Baccarat.
Second Player. Quite Shakspearian! “Banco’s” Ghost.
Little Spiffkins. “DON’T YOU THINK ONE MIGHT GET UP A DANCE HERE SOME EVENING?”
Young Brown. “NOT GIRLS ENOUGH, MY BOY!”
Little Spiffkins. “NOT GIRLS ENOUGH! WHY, I’VE GOT TO KEEP ’EM OFF ME WITH A STICK!”