"Emeralds, bloomin' emeralds here in London under my very nose. I'll 'ave 'em out," yelled the sailor. "I'll have 'em out in no time. I've come from Hindia, where they've got jools like these 'ere in the hidols' eyes. I couldn't get at them there, but I can get these 'ere," whereupon the sailor made a frantic jab with his knife at the Pleasant-Faced Lion's right eye. He had no time, or indeed any opportunity of continuing his unpleasant execution, for the enraged Lord Mayor had seized the wide ends of the sailor's trousers and had dragged him down with such abruptness and goodwill that the over-venturesome son of Neptune, dropping his knife, lay upon the ground volunteering expressions which at least had the merit of showing that his travels must have been indeed varied and extensive to have left him in possession of such a widely stocked vocabulary. "I'll have you up for attempting to mutilate the beautiful statues of London," shouted the enraged Lord Mayor. The Writer restrained the sailor's more or less ineffectual efforts to get at the Lord Mayor, but the Writer found it singularly impossible to control the shouted execrations of that abusive mariner, among a few of whose remarks could be mentioned, by way of sample, that he wanted to know why an old bloke dressed like an etcetera Mephistopheles meant by coming along from a blighted Covent Garden Ball and interfering with him; that if he, the mariner, could once get at the--ahem!--Mephistopheles in question, he would never go to a fancy ball again as long as he lived, as he would not have a head to go with, and his legs wouldn't ever be any use to him again as long as he lived. The Writer being sufficiently athletically active to control, or at any rate postpone, these amiable intentions of the mariner, the Lord Mayor was afforded a few brief seconds to climb up and examine his favourite. Flinging the wreath of water-lilies around the Lion's mane to get it out of the way, the Lord Mayor clasped his old favourite Lal round the neck, uttering words of consolation and affection. The Lion's eyes had changed from their bright emerald colour to a dull topaz yellow, which in turn subsided to their wonted colouring during the Lord Mayor's affectionate address. The countenance of the Lion gradually resumed its ordinary pleasant-faced expression, and two large tears fell upon the Lord Mayor's outstretched hands. The worthy Lord Mayor was quite overcome with emotion at this obvious sign from the Pleasant-Faced Lion! "Dear old Lal," murmured the Lord Mayor, "dear, faithful, loving soul, these are the first tears I have ever known you shed. Are they tears of gratitude because we have rescued you from this ruffian with a knife, who would have destroyed your noble sight? Or are they tears of pity? Speak to me, Lal; if they are tears of pity, they will open the gates of----"