HE. All right. Well, Jenny, just one, for the last. (_They embrace loudly, after which the F. resumes his seat with an expression of mingled sentiment and complacency._) Oh (_to L. OF F._), if you don't mind my stepping across you again, Mum. Jenny, if you see Dick between this and Friday, just tell him as---- [_Prolonged whispers; sounds of renewed kisses; final parting as train starts with a jerk, which throws the FINACÉ upon the L. OF F.'S lap. After the train is started a gleam of peculiar significance is observable in the eyes of one of the Seafaring_ _Men, who is reclining in an easy attitude on the seat. His companion responds with a grin of intelligence, and produces a large black bottle from the rack. They drink, and hand the bottle to the FIANCÉ._ The F. Thankee, I don't mind if I do. Here's wishing you---- [_Remainder of sentiment drowned in sound of glug-glug-glug; is about to hand back bottle when the first SEAFARER intimates that he is to pass it on. The L. OF F. recoils in horror._ BOTH SEAFARERS. It's _wine_, Mum! [_Tableau. The LADY OF FAMILY realises that the study of third-class humanity has its drawbacks._ [Illustration] THE FARMING OF THE FUTURE; OR, WHAT BRITISH AGRICULTURE IS COMING TO. _A Car on the Electric Light Railway. TIME.--Twentieth Century._ FIRST FARMER (_recognising Second Farmer_). Why, 'tis Muster Fretwail, surelie! didn't see it was you afore. And how be things gettin' along with _you_, Sir, eh? FARMER FRETWAIL (_lugubriously_). 'Mong the middlin's, Muster Lackaday; 'mong the middlin's! Nothen doin' just now--nothen 't all! THIRD FARMER (_enviously_). Well, _you_ hevn't no call fur to cry out, neighbour. I see you've got a likely lot o' noo 'oardins comin' up all along your part o' the line. I wish mine wur arf as furrard, I know thet! F. FRETWAIL. Ah, them "Keep yer 'air on"'s, _you_ mean, Ryemouth. I don't deny as they was lookin' tidy enough a week back. But just as I was makin' ready fur to paint up "Try it on a Billiard Ball," blamed if this yere frost didn't set in, and now theer's everything at a standstill, wi' the brushes froze 'ard in the pots! F. RYEMOUTH. 'Tis the same down with me. Theer's a acre o' "Bunyan's Easy Boots" as must hev a noo coat, and I cann't get nothen done to 'en till the weather's a bit more hopen like. Don' keer _'ow_ soon we hev a change, myself, I don't! F. LACKADAY. Nor yet me, so long as we don't 'ave no gales with it. Theer was my height acre pasture as I planted only las' Candlemas wi' "Roopy's Lung Tonics"--wunnerful fine and tall they was, too--and ivery one on 'en blowed down the next week!