that. One porter is discovered leaning against an automatic sweet machine designed by an Expressionist sculptor. He is wearing a long mole-coloured smock, and looking with extreme disfavour at his luggage-truck, which has somehow got itself painted bright blue and green, with red wheels. Music by J. H. Thomaski.

[Enter L., puffing slowly, the boat-train. The engine and carriages resemble Early-Victorian prints. Madame Pavlova descends, and in a very expressive dance conveys to the Porter that she has one or two trunks in the guard's van which she wants him to convey to a taxicab.

Porter. 'Ow many is there, lady?

[Pavlova pirouettes a little more and points three hundred and eighty-five times at the station-roof with her right toe.

Porter. Can't be done nohow.

[Pavlova dances a dance indicative of absolute and heartrending despair, terminating in an appeal to the heavens to come to her aid. Enter R. an important-looking personage with a long white beard, wearing a costume which might be, called a commissionaire's if it wasn't so like a harlequin's.

Porter (impressively and with evident relief). The Stazione Maestro!

The Stazione Maestro. What's all this?

[Pavlova dances an explanation of the impasse. The S.-M. and the Porter remove their caps and scratch their heads solemnly, to slow music.

The S.-M. (after deep cogitation). This must be referred to the N.U.R.

[Enter suddenly, R. and L., dancing, the Central Executive Committee of the N.U.R. There is thunder and lightning. Pavlova repeats her appeal. The C.E.C. confabulate. The Chairman finally announces that the thing is entirely contrary to the principles of their Union, and if the Station-master permits it he must take the consequences. The C.E.C. disappear.

The S.-M. What about it, Bill?

Porter. We'll do it. (He dances.) Here goes, Mum.

[Enter, suddenly, chorus of porters with multi-coloured trucks. (They are the same as the C.E.C. really, but they have changed their clothes.) Aided by the S.-M. and Bill they remove the three hundred and eighty-five packages, and wheel them, walking on their toes, to the station exit, R. Here is seen a taxicab whose driver is wrapped in profound meditation and smoking a hookah, the bowl of which rests on the pavement. It is represented to him that a lady with some luggage desires to charter his conveyance and proceed to Hampstead. He comes forward to the centre and explains:

1. That it is near the dinner-hour.

2. That he has no petrol.

3. That he wouldn't do it for Lloyd George hisself.

He retires to his vehicle and resumes his hookah. Pavlova dances some dances expressive of Spring, of Butterflies, of Flowers, of Unlimited Gold. In the midst of the final passage the driver leaps from his seat, rushes on to the platform, jumps three hundred and eighty-five times into the air, whirls Pavlova off her toes and dashes from side to side, carrying her in one hand. He finally flings her into the taxicab and returns to his seat. The luggage is piled upon the roof by dancing porters and tied with many-coloured ribbons. The taxi departs in a cloud of petrol, the driver steering with his toes and manipulating the clutches with his hands. Farewells are waved and finally, surrounded by the rest of the porters, the Station