[_She fans herself violently with her programme, and_ 'ENERY _is reduced to explain that his suggestion was not seriously intended._ IN THE STANDS--DURING THE NATIVE DISPLAY. _Mrs. Keyveve_ (_to her brother_, Mr. FREDERICK FRIVELL, _as the Somalis are performing a marriage dance_). It seems a curious kind of wedding, doesn't it, FRED? Can you make out which are the bride and bridegroom? _Mr. Frivell._ Fancy that's the bride in red cotton, with her hair down, prancing with maidenly gaiety between the first bridesmaid and the best man, while the bridegroom, becomingly draped in a bath-towel, may be observed capering up and down clapping hands with the officiating clergy. A simple but impressive ceremony. _Mrs. Keyveve._ Very. I wonder if they get any wedding presents. _Mr. Frivell._ Rather. The sportsman in the rusty wig gave 'em BROWNING'S poems and an afternoon tea-kettle, and the Johnny with the feathers in his wool presented her with a dressing-bag. The photo-frames, card-cases and carriage-clocks are all laid out in one of the huts, according to the savage custom of the country, guarded by a detective in the disguise of a wedding guest, armed with poisoned spears. _Mrs. Keyveve._ How silly you are! Look, they're rolling along a great wicker-basket. What _can_ they have in it--the bride's luggage, perhaps?... Why, it's an enormous snake! See, it's crawling out! _Mr. Frivell._ It's the bride's going-away dress, that's all. Someone ought to tell her that boas aren't worn this season, though. _'Arriet_ (_in the Sixpenny Promenade, to_ 'ARRY). What are they miking all that row about--are they supposed to be _torking_, or what? _'Arry_ (_vaguely_). I expect they're declarin' war--against _somebody_ or other. _'Arriet_ (_reflectively_). I wonder if that little bit of 'air stickin' up grows out of that feller's 'ed like that. Look at all them little nippers runnin' about--(_with an air of discovery_)--I expect they _belong_ to some of 'em. [_The Somalis perform a war-dance, which seems to consist in squatting down opposite one another in a double row, chanting "Razza-Ho! Ho-hoâ-ho-ho!" or words to that effect, while two of the party dodge between the ranks and cluck like poultry, after which all rise, knock their wooden shields together until they lose further interest in the affair, and stroll away satiated._ _Mrs. Keyveve._ Is that really their war-dance? It's very much the same as the _marriage_ dance, isn't it? _Mr. Frivell_ (_a contented bachelor_). Yes; subtle beggars, these Somalis. _'Arry_ (_during the Sham Fight_). 'Ark at one on 'em 'owlin' "Oo-oo-oo!" he's took bad _agen_! Good ole Mop 'Ed got one in _that_ time! "Olla-olla-olla!"--he's sayin' the other bloke 'it 'im on the jor.