_Spectators_ (_passing in front of groups of models arranged in realistic surroundings_). All the faces screwed up to suffering, you see!... What a nice patient expression that officer on the stretcher has! Yes, they've given _him_ a wax head--some of them are only _papier mâché_.... Pity they couldn't get nearer their right size in 'elmets, though, ain't it?... There's _one_ chap's given up the ghost!... I know that stuffed elephant--he comes from the Indian Jungle at the Colinderies!... I _do_ think it's a pity they couldn't get something more _like_ a mule than this wooden thing! Why, it's quite _flat_, and it's ears are only leather, nailed on!... You can't tell, my dear; it may be a peculiar breed out there--cross between a towel-horse and a donkey-engine, don't you know! IN THE INDIAN JUNGLE SHOOTING-GALLERY. At the back, amidst tropical scenery, an endless procession of remarkably undeceptive rabbits of painted tin are running rapidly up and down an inclined plane. Birds jerk painfully through the air above, and tin rats, boars, tigers, lions, and ducks, all of the same size, glide swiftly along grooves in the middle distance. In front, Commissionnaires are busy loading rifles for keen sportsmen, who keep up a lively but somewhat ineffective fusillade. _'Arriet_ (_to_ 'ARRY). They 'ave got it up beautiful, I must say. Do you _get_ anything for 'itting them? _'Arry_. On'y the honour. _A Father_ (_to intelligent Small Boy, in rear of Nervous Sportsman_). No, I ain't seen him 'it anything _yet_, my son; but you _watch_. That's a rabbit he's aiming at now.... Ah, _missed_ him! _Small Boy_. 'Ow d'yer _know_ what the gentleman's a-aiming at, eh, Father? _Father_. 'Ow? Why, you notice which way he points his gun. [The N.S. fires again--without results. _Small Boy_. I sor that time, Father. He was a-aiming at one o' them ducks, an' he missed a rabbit! [The N.S. gives it up in disgust. _Enter a small party of 'Arries in high spirits._ _First 'Arry_. 'Ullo! _I_'m on to this. 'Ere, Guv'nor, 'and us a gun. _I_'ll show yer 'ow to shoot! [He takes up his position, in happy unconsciousness that playful companions have decorated his coat-collar behind with a long piece of white paper. _Second 'Arry._ Go in, JIM! You got yer markin'-paper ready, anyhow. [Delighted guffaws from the other 'Arries, in which JIM joins vaguely. _Third 'Arry_. I'll lay you can't knock a rabbit down! _Jim_. I'll lay I can! [Fires. The procession of rabbits goes on undisturbed. _Second 'Arry_ (_jocosely_). Never mind. You _peppered_ 'im. I sor the feathers floy! _Third 'Arry._ You'd ha' copped 'im if yer'd bin a bit quicker. _Jim_ (_annoyed_). They keep on movin' so, they don't give a bloke no chornce! _Second 'Arry._ 'Ave a go at that old owl. [Alluding to a tin representation of that fowl which remains stationary among the painted rushes.