And then each ghost with his ladye-toast to their churchyard beds takes flight, With a kiss, perhaps, on her lantern chaps, and a grisly grim "good-night"; Till the welcome knell of the midnight bell rings forth its jolliest tune, And ushers in our next high holiday—the dead of the night's high-noon! CHORUS. Ha! ha! The dead of the night's high-noon! Ha! ha! ha! ha! ROB. I recognize you now—you are the picture that hangs at the end of the gallery. SIR ROD. In a bad light. I am. ROB. Are you considered a good likeness? SIR ROD. Pretty well. Flattering. ROB. Because as a work of art you are poor. SIR ROD. I am crude in colour, but I have only been painted ten years. In a couple of centuries I shall be an Old Master, and then you will be sorry you spoke lightly of me. ROB. And may I ask why you have left your frames? SIR ROD. It is our duty to see that our successors commit their daily crimes in a conscientious and workmanlike fashion. It is our duty to remind you that you are evading the conditions under which you are permitted to exist. ROB. Really, I don't know what you'd have. I've only been a bad baronet a week, and I've committed a crime punctually every day. SIR ROD. Let us inquire into this. Monday? ROB. Monday was a Bank Holiday. SIR ROD. True. Tuesday? ROB. On Tuesday I made a false income-tax return. ALL. Ha! ha! 1ST GHOST. That's nothing. 2ND GHOST. Nothing at all. 3RD GHOST. Everybody does that. 4TH GHOST. It's expected of you. SIR ROD. Wednesday? ROB. (melodramatically). On Wednesday I forged a will. SIR ROD. Whose will? ROB. My own. SIR ROD. My good sir, you can't forge your own will! ROB. Can't I, though! I like that! I did! Besides, if a man can't forge his own will, whose will can he forge? 1ST GHOST. There's something in that. 2ND GHOST. Yes, it seems reasonable. 3RD GHOST. At first sight it does. 4TH GHOST. Fallacy somewhere, I fancy! ROB. A man can do what he likes with his own! SIR ROD. I suppose he can. ROB. Well, then, he can forge his own will, stoopid! On Thursday I shot a fox. 1ST GHOST. Hear, hear! SIR ROD. That's better (addressing Ghosts). Pass the fox, I think? (They assent.) Yes, pass the fox. Friday? ROB. On Friday I forged a cheque. SIR ROD. Whose cheque? ROB. Old Adam's. SIR ROD. But Old Adam hasn't a banker. ROB. I didn't say I forged his banker—I said I forged his cheque. On Saturday I disinherited my only son. SIR ROD. But you haven't got a son. ROB. No—not yet. I disinherited him in advance, to save time. You see—by this arrangement—he'll be born ready