waste of time, for two people to keep firing pistols at one another, with nothing in ’em?

Cox. No, sir—not more than any other harmless recreation.

Box. Hark ye! Why do you object to marry Penelope Ann?

Cox. Because, as I’ve observed already, I can’t abide her. You’ll be very happy with her.

Box. Happy! Me! With the consciousness that I have deprived you of such a treasure? No, no, Cox!

Cox. Don’t think of me, Box—I shall be sufficiently rewarded by the knowledge of my Box’s happiness.

Box. Don’t be absurd, sir!

Cox. Then don’t you be ridiculous, sir!

Box. I won’t have her!

Cox. I won’t have her!

Box. I have it! Suppose we draw lots for the lady—eh, Mr. Cox?

Cox. That’s fair enough, Mr. Box.

Box. Or, what say you to dice?

Cox. With all my heart! Dice, by all means—[Eagerly.]

Box. [Aside.] That’s lucky! Mrs. Bouncer’s nephew left a pair here yesterday. He sometimes persuades me to have a throw for a trifle, and as he always throws sixes, I suspect they are good ones.

[Goes to the cupboard at R., and brings out the dice-box.

Cox. [Aside.] I’ve no objection at all to dice. I lost one pound, seventeen and sixpence, at last Barnet Races, to a very gentlemanly looking man, who had a most peculiar knack of throwing sixes; I suspected they were loaded, so I gave him another half-crown, and he gave me the dice.

[Takes dice out of his pocket—uses lucifer box as substitute for dice-box, which is on table.

Box. Now then, sir!

Cox. I’m ready, sir! [They seat themselves at opposite sides of the table.] Will you lead off, sir?

Box. As you please, sir. The lowest throw, of course, wins Penelope Ann?

Cox. Of course, sir.

Box. Very well, sir!

Cox. Very well, sir!

Box. [Rattling dice and throwing.] Sixes!

Cox. That’s not a bad throw of yours, sir. [Rattling dice—throws.] Sixes!

Box. That’s a pretty good one of your’s, sir. [Throws.] Sixes!

Cox. [Throws.] Sixes!

Box. Sixes!

Cox. Sixes!

Box. Sixes!

Cox. Sixes!

Box. Those are not bad dice of yours, sir.

Cox. Your’s seem pretty good ones, sir.

Box. Suppose we change?

Cox. Very well, sir.

[They change dice.

Box. [Throwing.] Sixes!

Cox. Sixes!

Box. Sixes!

Cox. Sixes!

Box. [Flings down the dice.] Pooh! It’s perfectly absurd, your going on throwing sixes in this sort of way, sir.

Cox. I shall go on till my luck changes, sir!

Box. Let’s try something else. I have it! Suppose we toss for Penelope Ann?

Cox. The very thing I was going to propose!

[They each turn aside and take out a handful of money.

Box. [Aside, examining money.] Where’s my tossing shilling? Here it is!

[Selecting coin.

Cox. [Aside, examining money.] Where’s my lucky sixpence? I’ve got it!

Box. Now then, sir,—heads win?

Cox. Or tails lose—whichever you prefer.

Box. It’s the same to me, sir.

Cox. Very well, sir. Heads, I win,—tails, you lose.

Box. Yes—[Suddenly]—no. Heads win, sir.

Cox. Very well—go on!

[They are standing opposite to each other.

Box. [Tossing.] Heads!

Cox. [Tossing.] Heads!

Box. [Tossing.] Heads!

Cox. [Tossing.] Heads!

Box. Ain’t you rather tired of turning up heads, sir?

Cox. Couldn’t you vary the monotony of our proceedings by an occasional tail, sir?

Box. [Tossing.] Heads!

Cox. [Tossing.] Heads!

Box. Heads? Stop, sir! Will you permit me—[Taking Cox’s sixpence.] Holloa! your sixpence has got no tail, sir!

Cox. [Seizing Box’s shilling.] And your shilling has got two heads, sir!

Box. Cheat!

Cox. Swindler! [They are about to rush upon each other, then retreat to some distance, and commence sparring, and striking fiercely at one another.]

Enter Mrs. Bouncer, L. H. C.

Box & Cox. Is the little back second floor room ready?

Mrs. B. Not quite, gentlemen. I can’t find the pistols, but I have brought you a letter—it came by the General Post yesterday. I’m sure I don’t know how I forgot it, for I put it carefully in my pocket.

Cox. And you’ve kept it carefully in your pocket ever since?

Mrs. B. Yes, sir. I hope you’ll forgive me, sir. [Going.] By the bye, I paid twopence for it.

Cox. Did you? Then I do forgive you.

[Exit Mrs. B.

[Looking at letter.] “Margate.” The post-mark decidedly says “Margate.”

Box. Oh, doubtless a tender epistle from Penelope Ann.

Cox. Then read it, sir. [Handing letter to Box.]

Box. Me, sir?

Cox. Of course. You don’t suppose I’m going to read a letter from your intended?

Box. My intended! Pooh! It’s addressed to you—C. O. X.!

Cox. Do you think that’s a C.? It looks to me like a B.

Box. Nonsense! Fracture the seal!

Cox. [Opens letter—starts.] Goodness gracious!

Box. [Snatching letter—starts.] Gracious goodness!

Cox. [Taking letter again.] “Margate—May the 4th. Sir,—I hasten to convey to you the intelligence of a melancholy accident, which has bereft you of