_Shoemaker._ Murmuring, m'Lord? Oh dear no, m'Lord. Not at all, m'Lord. Quite _the_ contrary. I was only blessing that there G. for spoiling the Trade as he has done. Brought us down from Wellingtons, and even his own smartly cut Oxonians to borough Bluchers and rustic highlows; and now wants to set a new fashion all on a sudden, and make us all take to his confounded badly cut Irish brogues. Yah! Chaps like G. ought to be boycotted--ahem!--I mean Primrose-Leagued out of the profession. Wonder any gentleman can condescend to deal with him. Now, _my_ customers, as your friend Mr. JOSEPH kindly acknowledged t'other day, are gentlemen to a man, and for cut, style, finish and polish, I _will_ say---- _Customer._ Oh, yes, no doubt. But the point just at present, my good fellow, is _fit_. If you miss that you miss all. _Shoemaker (eagerly)._ Oh, have no fear on that account, m'Lord. Elastic's the word, m'Lord. We've any number of different trees, and our leather is warranted to stretch to any extent. We'll even alter our favourite old-fashionable cut to suit such customers as _you_! [Illustration: MAKING IT EASY. SHOEMAKER (_most accommodating_). "THE OTHER FITS ALL RIGHT, M'LORD--THIS ONE WAS A BIT TIGHT,--BUT NOW I'VE EASED IT YOU'LL BE ABLE TO WEAR IT WITH PERFECT COMFORT. WE CAN'T AFFORD TO LOSE YOUR CUSTOM, M'LORD!"] _Customer._ Thanks. The fashion _is_ changing a little, I fear. I don't want to leave you, and I won't go back to G.--if I can help it. If his brogue should become the vogue--but there, it's shocking to think of it. Give us a decent fit which we can wear in public without reproach, and we'll stick to you. But how about this boot? _Shoemaker (with effusion)._ Oh, we'll alter it to _any_ extent, to suit your taste, m'Lord, though it isn't exactly the cut upon which our House has always prided itself. There! It _was_ a bit tight, but now I've eased it you'll be able to wear it with perfect comfort. We can't afford to lose _your_ custom, m'Lord! * * * * * [Illustration: THE CONVENTIONAL MISSIONARY WHO COULDN'T CONVERT THE SULTAN. "Sir DRUMMOND WOLFF'S Mission is at an end."--_Papers generally._] * * * * * 'ARRY ON ANGLING. DEAR CHARLIE, 'Ow are yer, my arty, and 'ow does this Summer suit _you?_ Selp me never, old pal, it's a scorcher! _I_ lap lemon-squosh till all's blue, And then feel as dry as a dust-bin. Want all SPIERS and POND'S upon trust, For it do make a 'ole in the ochre to deal with a true first-class thust. But it's proper, dear boy, yus it's proper, this weather is, took on the 'ole, And for 'oliday outings and skylarks it sets a chap fair on the roll. Where d'yer think as I spent my last bust up? I know you'd be out of the 'unt If you guessed for a 'ole month o' Sundays. I passed it, old pal, _in a punt!_