HIS FRIEND (_unkindly--as the_ F. S. _comes down in the form of a St. Andrew's Cross_). Y--yes. More like a Spread Eagle though, ain't it? PRETTY GIRL (_to_ Mr. ACKMEY, _who has been privileged to take charge of herself and her_ PLAIN SISTER). Do come and tell me if I'm doing it right, Mr. Ackmey. You _said_ you'd go round with me! [Illustration: "GO IT, OLE FRANKY, MY SON!"] THE PLAIN S. How can you be so _selfish_, Florrie? You've had ever so much more practice than _I_ have! Mr. Ackmey, I wish you'd look at my left boot--it _will_ go like that. Is it my ankle--or what? And this strap _is_ hurting me so! Couldn't you loosen it, or take me back to the man, or something? Florrie can get on quite well alone, can't she? MR. A. (_temporising feebly_). Er--suppose I give _each_ of you a hand, eh? THE PLAIN S. No; I can't go along fast, like you and Florrie. You promised to look after me, and I'm perfectly helpless alone! THE PRETTY S. Then, am I to go by myself, Mr. Ackmey? MR. A. I--I think--just for a little, if you don't mind! THE PRETTY S. Mind? Not a bit! There's Clara Willoughby and her brother on the next ring, I'll go over to them. Take good care of Alice, Mr. Ackmey. Good-bye for the present. [_She goes_; ALICE _doesn't think_ MR. A. _is "nearly so nice as he used to be."_ THE RECKLESS ROUGH. Now then, I'm on 'ere. Clear the way, all of yer! Parties must look out fur themselves when they see _me_ a comin', I carn't stop fur nobody! [_Rushes round the ring at a tremendous pace._ AN ADMIRING SWEEPER (_following his movements with enthusiasm_). Theer he goes--the Ornimental Skyter! Look at 'im a buzzin' round! Lor, it's a treat to see 'im bowlin' 'em all over like a lot er bloomin' ninepins! Go it, ole Franky, my son--don't you stop to apollergise!... Ah, there he goes on his nut agen! _'E_ don't care, not _'e_!... Orf he goes agin!... That's _another_ on 'em down, and ole Franky atop--'e'll 'ave the ring all to 'isself presently! Up agin! Oh, ain't he _lovely_! I never see his loike afore nowheres.... _Round_ yer go--that's the stoyle! My eyes, if he ain't upset another--a lydy this time--she's done _'er_ skytin fur the d'y any 'ow! and ole Frank knocked silly.... Well, I ain't larfed ser much in all my life! [_He is left laughing._ In a Fog. (_A Reminiscence of the Past Month._) SCENE--_Main thoroughfare near Hyde Park. Time_ 8 P.M. _Nothing visible anywhere, but very much audible; horses slipping and plunging, wheels grinding, crashes, jolts, and English as she is spoke on such occasions._ MRS. FLUSTERS (_who is seated in a brougham with her husband, on their way to dine with some friends in Cromwell Road_). We shall be dreadfully late, I know we shall! I'm sure Peacock could go faster than this if he liked--he always loses his head when there's much traffic. Do tell him to make haste! MR. F. Better let him alone--he knows what he's doing.