p.h.,
halting occasionally for Isabella to feed and the line-guard to rest
his arm. I have seen faster things in my day.
Then, just as we were arriving at our journey's end we collided
with another procession. It was the wrecking gang, laden with the
implements of their trade (shovels, picks, wire-cutters, ropes,
planks, waggon-jacks, etc.), and escorting in their midst Mr. Cazenove
and his battered racehorse. Both competitors immediately claimed the
victory:--
"Beaten you this time, Albert Edward, old man."... "On the contrary,
Charles, old chap, I won hands down."... "But, my good fellow, I've
been here for hours."... "My dear old thing, I've been here _all
night_!"... "Do be reasonable."... "Don't be absurd."
"Oh, dry up, you two, and leave it to the winning-post to decide,"
said William.
"By the way, where is the winning-post?"
"The winning-post," we echoed. "Yes, where is he?"
"Begging your pardon, Sir," came the voice of the Mess orderly,
"but if you was referring to Mister MacTavish he went home to bed
half-an-hour ago."
PATLANDER.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Potential President of the Royal Academy._ "AND HERE,
AUNTIE, WE GET THE SIDE ELEVATION."
_Auntie._ "HOW DELIGHTFULLY THOROUGH! I'D NO IDEA THAT ARCHITECTS DID
THE SIDES AS WELL."]
* * * * *
ANOTHER IMPENDING APOLOGY.
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