And then, all, in a monthly volume, as Medleys for the Month. I distinctly see Popgood and Groolly's rapid and colossal fortune. Then there'd be a quarterly. Why not _Quarterly Quips_? No, this is not sufficiently general. [N.B. Joke by a man on a treadmill might be termed a _Quip on a Crank_.] _Happy Thought._--_Quantity and Quality, a Quarterly Quintessence._ _Quips, Quiddities, Quibbles, and Quirks_, by ... dear me, I want to say "ready writers"--that's the style of _nom de plume_ required. _Plume_ is suggestive. I have it. _Happy Thought._--"_Quick Quills._" Popgood's advertisement will say, "The above Quarterly by Quick Quills." Now I'll begin. Knock at the door. Mr. Orby Frimmely wants to know if I will stroll out with him and meet the Signor returning. With pleasure. Leave the sayings for another Sunday. We stroll. [Illustration: AWAY!] CHAPTER XIX. A WALK WITH SIGNOR REGNIATI. _THE PROSAIC GENTLEMAN._ _Weather fine. We are out for a walk. Mr. Orby Frimmely, of the City, represents the Prosaic. I put myself down as the Poetic, and the Signor as the Enthusiastic. To us a small man in clerical black and Roman collar._ _The Signor_ (_saluting cleric_). Ah, Father Cuthbert. 'Ow you do? (_Introduces us._) You 'ave got beautiful flowers. _Father C._ (_alluding to the bunch in his hand_). _Flores martyrum._ You have heard that we are ordered off for active service in China. _Self._ China! (_We see in our "mind's eye, Horatio" the fearful tortures recently practised upon Christians in China and are speechless._) _Frimmely_ (_the Prosaic_). Ah! You must take care what you're about there. (_Surprise of the Reverend F. Cuthbert._) The Government won't protect you, you know (_he says this as if the reverend gentleman was going to China to rob an orchard_). _Father C._ No. It will not. (_Nobly._) We go to suffer and to preach the faith. _Signor._ Oh, my Jo! I should not like to be eat. I 'ope you vill not go. Let us know before you start. _Father C._ (_cheerfully_). It is certain. I'm afraid I shan't be at the College to see you next Sunday. Good-bye. [_Exit Father C._ _We continue our walk._ _Myself_ (_the poetical_). Ah! What a grand lot! What a high and holy calling. Here we are, striving for comfort, and perhaps for fame, there the missioner goes forth, to die, perhaps in torments, unknown to the world until the Day of Doom. [_I am impressed and silent._] _Signor._ Oh, my Jo! I vould not go to be eat. (_Nobly, and in true Christian spirit._) I vould say let me go, and I vill run a-vays.