RUSS.--No--'twas you that did it; we have been ruined by your laziness.
What _is_ to become of us now?
MEL.--Alas! where shall we dine?
* * * * *
The next individual who presented himself, to obtain a license for the
Carlton Club Equestrian Troop, was a strange-loooking character, who gave
his name as Sibthorp.
PUNCH.--What are you, sir?
SIB.--Clown to the ring, my lord, and principal performer on the Salt-box.
I provide my own paint and pipe-clay, make my own jokes, and laugh at them
too. I do the ground and lofty tumbling, and ride the wonderful
donkey--all for the small sum of fifteen bob a-week.
PUNCH.--You have been represented as a very noisy and turbulent fellow.
SIB.--Meek as a lamb, my lord, except when I'm on the saw-dust; there I
acknowledge, I do crow pretty loudly--but that's in the way of
business,--and your lordship knows that we public jokers must pitch it
strong sometimes to make our audience laugh, and bring the _browns_ into
the treasury. After all, my lord, I am not the rogue many people take me
for,--more the other way, I can assure you, and
"Though to my share some human errors fall,
Look in my face, and you'll forget them all."
PUNCH.--A strong appeal, I must confess. You shall have your license.
The successful claimant having made his best bow to Commissioner Punch,
withdrew, whistling the national air of
[Illustration: "BRITONS, STRIKE HOME.
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