'Am-and-Eggs!

'Ow much for yer mustard-striped kicksies? Way-oh! Wy, you nearly run down

The Ryhalto that time, you young josser. Look hout, Miss, he'll crack your sweet crown!"

Yours, 'ARRY.

INNS AND OUTS.

No. I.—"Mister."

In a "Grand Hôtel" again; abroad; never mind which or where; have experienced many Inns and many outings, but find all Grand Hôtels much the same. "Lawn-tennis, English Church in the Spatious Grounds, good station for friends of the Fisch-Sport."—But the quintessence of Grand-Hotelism is "Mr." in his Bureau.

The main thing about "Mr." is his frock-coat ("made in Germany"). It is always buttoned; he is never without it; I believe he sleeps in it. Divest him of this magician's robe (so to speak) and he would be powerless.

The Hôtel omnibus clatters in; "Mr." confronts us, smiling and serene, with his two Secretaries of Legation. He discriminates the Inn-comers at a glance.—"Numero 10, 11, 12, entresol;" for Noah-like Paterfamilias with Caravan; "Numero 656, for se Leddy's med;" "Numero 80, for me, the soi-disant Habitué;" it's the room I'm supposed to have always had, so I pretend to like it. One Unremunerative-looking Pedestrian, in knickerbockers, is assured that, if he waits half a day or so, he may get an attic—"Back of se house; fine view of se sluice-gate and cemetery."—U.-L.P. expostulates; he has telegraphed for a good room; it's too bad.—"Ver' sawy, but is quite complete now, se Hôtel." U.-L.P., furious; "Hang it," &c. "Mr." deprecates this ingratitude—"Ver' sawy, Sor; but if you don't like," (with decision), "se whole wide wurrld is open to you!" Pedestrian retires, threatening to write to the Times. Preposterous! as if the Editor would print anything against "Mr."! "Mr.'s" attitude majestic and martyred; CASABIANCA in a frock-coat! Bless you! he knows us all, better than we know ourselves. He sees the Cook's ticket through the U.-L.P.'s Norfolk-jacket.

"He sees the Cook's ticket through the U.-L.P.'s Norfolk-jacket."

When "Mr." is not writing, he is changing money. The sheepish Briton stands dumb before this financier, and is shorn—of the exchange, with an oafish fascination at "Mr.'s" dexterous manipulation of the rouleaux of gold and notes. Nobody dares haggle with "Mr." When he is not changing money, he is, as I have said, writing, perhaps his Reminiscences. It is "Mr." "What gif you se informations;" and what questions! The seasoned Pensionnaire wants to know how she can get to that lovely valley where the Tiger-lilies grow, without taking a carriage. The British Matron, where she can buy rusks, "real English rusks, you know." A cantankerous tripper asks "why he never has bread-sauce with the nightly chicken." And we all troop to "Mr." after breakfast, to beg him to affix postage-stamps to our letters, and to demand the precise time when "they will reach England;" as if they wouldn't reach at all without "Mr.'s" authority. It gives the nervous a sense of security to watch "Mr." stamping envelopes. It is a way of beginning the day in a Grand Hôtel.

"Mr." gives you the idea of not wishing to make a profit; but he gives you nothing else. You wish to be "en pension"—"Ver' well, Sor, it is seventeen francs (or marks) the day;" but you soon discover that your room is extra, and that you may not dine "apart;" in a word, you are "Mr.'s" bondsman. Then there is the persuasive lady, who perhaps, may be stopping a week or more, but her plans are undecided—at any rate six days—"Will 'Mr.' make a reduction?" "Mr." however, continues his manuscript, oh ever so long! and smiles; his smile is worse than his bite! I, the Habitué, approach "Mr." with a furtive clandestine air, and observe cheerily, "I hope to remain here a month." "Certainly, Sor; is better you do; will be se same as last year; I gif you se same appartement, you see."—This with an air of favour. I thank him profusely—for nothing. My bill turns out to be higher than if I had been overcharged separately for everything. "Mr." is the Master of the Arts of extras. He does not wish to make a profit; oh no! but—ahem—he makes it. As for the outsiders who straggle in casually for luncheon and want to be sharp with "Mr." afterwards, they are soon settled. One who won't be done, complains of a prince's ransom for a potato-salad.—"If you haf pertatas, you pay for pertatas."—TALLEYRAND could not have been more unanswerable.