PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

Vol. 102.

April 9th, 1892.

BOAT-RACE DAY.

The Reader will kindly imagine that he has crossed Hammersmith Bridge, and is being carried along by a jostling stream of sightseers towards Mortlake. The banks are already occupied—although it still wants half an hour to the time fixed for the start—by a triple row of the more patient and prudent spectators. On the left of the path, various more or less Shady Characters have established their "pitches," and are doing their best to beguile the unsophisticated.

First Shady Character (presiding over a particoloured roulette board with a revolving and not unmanageable index). Three to one any colour you like! Fairest game in the world! I'm a backin' I'm a layin'.... Pop it on, you sportsmen! (Two Sportsmen—a couple of shop-boys—"pop it on," in coppers.) Yaller was your colour—and it is a yaller cap, sure enough! I'm a payin' this time. Try it again! (They do.) Blue's your fancy this turn, my lord. And green it is! Good ole Hireland for ever! Twenty can play at this game as well as one! Don't be afraid o' yer luck—'ave another go. Red did you put your coppers on? And it's yaller again—and you lose! (The Sportsmen pass on—with empty pockets.) Fairest game in the world!

Second S.C. (who has been conducting a Confidence Auction from a barrow and egg-box). Well, I 'ope you're all satisfied, and if you ain't —(candidly)—it don't make no bloomin' difference to me, for I'm orf—these premises is comin' down fur alterations. [He gets off the barrow, shoulders the egg-box, and departs in search of fresh dupes.

A Vendor. Now all you who are fond of a bit o' fun and amusement, jest you stop and invest a penny in this little article I am now about to introdooce to your notice, warranted to make yer proficient in the 'ole art and practice of Photography in the small space of five seconds and a arf—and I think you'll agree with me as it ain't possible to become an expert photographer at a smaller expense than the sum of one penny. 'Ere I 'old in my 'and a simple little machine, consistin' of a small sheet of glorss in a gilt frame. I've been vaccinated five 'underd-and-forty-one times, never been bit by a mad dog in my life, and all these articles have been thoroughly fumigated before leaving the factory, therefore you'll agree with me you needn't be afraid o' catchin' the Inflooenza. They tell me it's nearly died out now—and no wonder, with everythink a cure for it—but this article is a certain remedy. All you've got to do is to bite off a corner of the glorss, takin' care to be near a public 'ouse at the time, chew the glorss into small fragments, enter the public 'ouse, call for a pot o' four ale, and drink it orf quick. It operates in this way—the minoot portions of the glorss git between the jaws of the microbe, preventin' 'im from closin' 'is mouth, and thereby enablin' you to suffocate 'im with the four ale. (To the Reader.) Will you allow me to show you how this little invention takes a photograph, Sir? kindly 'old it in your 'and, breathe on it, and look steadily on the plate for the space of a few seconds. (All of which the Reader, being the soul of courtesy, obligingly does—and is immediately rewarded by observing the outline of a donkey's head produced upon the glass.) Now if you'll 'and that round, Sir, to allow the company to judge whether it ain't a correct likeness—             [But here the Reader will probably prefer to pass on.

Third S.C. (who is crouching on ground by a tin case, half covered with a rug, and yelling). Ow-ow-ow-ow!... Come an' see the wonderful little popsy-wopsy Marmoseet, what kin tork five lengwidges, walk round, shake 'ands, tell yer 'is buthday, 'is percise age, and where he was keptured!

[Crowd collects to inspect this zoological phenomenon, which—as soon as an inconvenient Constable is out of hearing—reveals itself as an illicit lottery. Speculators purchase numbered tickets freely; balls are shaken up in the tin box—and the popsy-wopsy invariably gets distinctly the best of it.

"I'm ole Billy Fairplay, I am!"

Fourth S.C. (an extremely disreputable-looking old gentleman, with a cunningly curled piece of tape on a board), 'Ere, I'm ole BILLY FAIRPLAY, I am! Come an' try yer fortins at little 'Ide an' Find! Arf a crown yer don't prick the middle o' this bit o' tape. Bet arf a crown, to win five shillin's! (A school-boy sees his way to doubling his last tip, and speculates.) Wrong agin, my boy! It's old BILLY FAIRPLAY'S luck—for once in a way!             [The School-boy departs, saddened by this most unexpected result.

Fifth S.C. (a fat, fair man, with an impudent frog-face, who is trying desperately hard to take in a sceptical crowd with the too familiar purse-trick). Now look 'ere, I don't mind tellin' yer all, fair an' frank, I'm 'ere to get a bit, if I can; but, if you kin ketch me on my merits, why, I shan't grumble—I'll promise yer that much! Well, now—(to a stolid and respectable young Clerk)—jest to show you don't know me, and I don't know you—(he throws three half-crowns into the purse). There, 'old that for me. Shut it. (The Clerk does so, grinning.) Thank you—you're a gentleman, though you mayn't look like it—but perhaps you're one in disguise. Now gimme 'arf a crown for it. Yer won't? Any one gimme arf a crown for it? Why—(unprintable language)—if ever I see sech a blanky lot o' mugs in my life! 'Ere, I'll try yer once more! (He does.) Now oo'll gimme arf a crown for it? (To a Genteel Onlooker, with an eyeglass, who has made an audible comment) "See 'ow it's done!" So yer orter, with a glazier's shop where yer eye orter be! Well, if anyone had 'a told me I should stand 'ere, on Boat-Race Day too, orferin' six bob for arf a crown, and no one with the ordinary pluck an' straightforwardness to take me at my word, I'd have suspected that man of tellin' me a untruth! (To a simple-looking spectator.) Will you 'old this purse for me? Yer will? Well. I like the manly way yer speak up! (Here the Gent. Onl., observing a seedy man slinking about outside, warns the company to "mind their pockets"—which excites the Purse-seller's just indignation.) "Ere!—(to the G.O.) you take your 'ook! I've 'ad enough o' you. I 'ave. You're a bloomin' sight too officious, you are! Not much in your pockets to mind—'cept the key o' the street, and a ticket o' leave, I'll lay! If you carn't beyave as a Gentleman among Gentlemen, go 'ome to where you 'ad your 'air cut last—to Pentonville! (The G.O. retires.) There, we shall get along better without 'im. 'Ow long are you goin' to keep me 'ere? Upon my word an' honour, it's enough to sicken a man to see what the world's come to! Where's yer courage? Where's yer own common sense? Where's your faith in 'umin nature? What do yer expect? (Scathingly.) Want me to wrop it up in a porcel, and send it 'ome for yer? Is that what yer waitin' for! Dammy, if this goes on, I shall git wild, and take and give the bloomin' purse a bath! (The Simple Spectator feels