_The Driver_ (_with dignity_). I consider it a bloomin' liberty, and a downright piece of himpertinence, you comin' 'ere interferin' with with my business--and so I tell yer! _The Lady_ (_with more dignity_). I'm not taking no liberties with nobody--she ast me to it, or I shoudn't _be_ 'ere--_I_ don't want to take the money, not without bein' ast to do so. She come and ast me to take her place while she was away, and in course _I_ wasn't goin' to say no. _Driver._ Don't you tork to me. I know what _you_ are, puttin' yerself forward whenever yer can--a goin' tellin' the people on the road as you was the Baby's mother! _The Lady._ I never said no such thing! Why should I want to tell sech a story for? _Driver._ Arsk yourself--not me. And p'raps you never said you 'ad valuable property in our waggin' neither. _Lady_ (_apparently cut to the heart by this accusation_). It's a false'ood! I never 'ad no valuable property in your waggin', nor yet nobody else's; and I'll thank you to keep your distance, and not go raggin' me. _Driver_ (_edging nearer_), I'll keep _my_ distance. But don't you make no mistake--I'm not to be _played_ with! I'm sick o' your goin's on. And then(_reviving a rankling and mysterious grievance_) to think o' you a comin' mincin' up on the road with yer(_mimicking_), "Oh, yus, Mrs. FAIRCHILD, there's a blacksmith jest across the way!" What call 'ad you got to shove _your_ nose in like that, eh? you're a interferin' cat, that's what _you_ are! [The Conjuror's Lady is moved to the verge of tears and assault, and her wrath is only assuaged by the arrival of the missing Proprietress, who patches up a temporary peace; presently the hangings at the back are parted, and an immensely stout child, dressed in an infant's frock, waddles in, hoists herself on the platform and into the chair, from which she regards the Spectators with stolid composure; the small boys edge back, nudge one another and snigger furtively; the girls say "Oh, lor!" in a whisper, and a painful silence follows. _A Middle-aged Labourer_ (_feeling the awkwardness of the situation_). 'Ow old may you be, Missy? _The Giant Baby_ (_with a snap_). Ten! [She gazes all round with the hauteur peculiar to a phenomenon, and her visitors are only relieved from the strain by the timely appearance of the Exhibitor, a Mulatto lady, who gives a brief biographical sketch of the Infant's career, with details of her weight and measurements. Then Miss POLLY sings a stanza of "Little Annie Rooney" in a phonographic manner, dances a few ponderous steps, and identifies the most sheepish youth in the audience--much to his embarrassment--as her sweetheart, after which her audience is permitted to shake hands with her and depart. * * * * * A Prize Lottery.