"_No more, indeed, really;" i.e.,_ "Had nothing to eat--but more of _that_ stuff? No, thank you." ELECTIONEERING. "_The Leaders to whom the Nation owes its recent period of prosperity": i.e.,_ "Gentlemen who have unavoidably remained in Office during the revival of Trade." "_Having every personal respect for my opponent;" i.e.,_ "I now proceed to blacken his political character." IN THE SMOKING-ROOM. "_You know I always hate long arguments;" i.e.,_ "Don't deprive me of my pet diversion." "_No; I don't exactly see what you mean;" i.e.,_ "_You_ don't; but the admission on my part looks candid." "_My dear fellow, ask_ anyone _who really knows anything;" i.e._ "You appear to live among a half-educated set of local faddists." * * * * * 'ARRY ON 'ARRISON AND THE GLORIOUS TWELFTH. DEAR CHARLIE,--No Parry for me, mate, not this season leastways--wus luck! At the shop I'm employed in at present, the hands has all bloomin' well struck. It's hupset all our 'olidays, CHARLIE, and as to my chance of a rise Wot do _you_ think, old pal? I'm fair flummoxed, and singing, _Oh, what a surprise!_ These Strikes is becoming rare noosances, dashed if they ain't, dear old boy. They're all over the shop, like Miss ZÆO, wot street-kids seems so to enjoy. Mugs' game! They'll soon find as the Marsters ain't goin' to be worried and welched, And when they rob coves of their 'olidays, 'ang it, they ought to be squelched. 'Owsomever, I'm mucked, that's a moral. This doosid dead-set against Wealth Is a sign o' the times as looks orkud, and bad for the national 'ealth. There ain't nothink the nobs is fair nuts on but wot these 'ere bellerers ban. Wy, they're down upon Sport, now, a pelter. Perposterous, ain't it, old man? Bin a reading FRED 'ARRISON'S kibosh along o' "The Feast of St. Grouse," On the "Glorious Twelfth," as he calls it; wen swells is fair shut of the 'Ouse, Its Obstruction, and similar 'orrors, in course they hikes off to the Moors. Small blame to 'em, CHARLIE, small blame to 'em, spite of the prigs and the boors! Yet this 'ARRISON he sets _his_ back up. Dry smug as can't 'andle a gun, I'll bet Marlboro' 'Ouse to a broomstick, and ain't got no notion of Fun. "Loves the Moors much too well for to carry one;" that's wot _he_ says, sour old sap Bet my boots as he can't 'it a 'aystack at twenty yards rise--eh, old chap?