First Soldier (to his Companion).  Lot o’ work in that, yer know!

Second Soldier.  Yes. (Thoughtfully.) Not but what—­(becoming critical)—­if I’d been doin’ it myself, I should ha’ chose pins with smaller ’eds on ’em.

First S. (regarding this as presumptuous).  You may depend on it the man who made that ’ad his reasons for choosing the pins he did—­but there’s no pleasing some parties!

Second S. (apologetically).  Well, I ain’t denying the Art in it, am I?

First Woman.  I do call that ’andsome, SARAH.  See, there’s a star, and two ’arps, and a crownd, and I don’t know what all—­and all done in pins and beads!  “Made by Bandsman BROWN,” too!

    [Reading placard.

Second W. Soldiers is that clever with their ’ands.  Four pounds seems a deal to ask for it, though.

First W. But look at the weeks it must ha’ took him to do! (Reading.) “Containing between ten and eleven thousand pins and beads, and a hundred and ninety-eight pieces of coloured cloth!” Why, the pins alone must ha’ cost a deal of money.

Second W. Yes, it ’ud be a pity for it to go to somebody as ’ud want to take ’em out.

First W. It ought to be bought up by Gover’ment, that it ought—­they’re well able to afford it.

    A select party of Philistines, comprising a young Man, apparently
    in the Army, and his Mother and Sister, are examining Mr.
    GILBERT’S Jubilee Trophy in a spirit of puzzled antipathy.

The Mother.  Dear me, and that’s the Jubilee centrepiece, is it?  What a heavy-looking thing.  I wonder what that cost?

Her Son (gloomily).  Cost?  Why, about two days’ pay for every man in the Service!

His Mother.  Well, I call it a shame for the Army to be fleeced for that thing.  Are those creatures intended for mermaids, with their tails curled round that glass ball, I wonder? [She sniffs.

Her Daughter.  I expect it will be crystal, Mother.

Her Mother.  Very likely, my dear, but—­glass or crystal—­I see no sense in it!

Daughter.  Oh, it’s absurd, of course—­still, this figure isn’t badly done, is it supposed to represent St. GEORGE carrying the Dragon?  Because they’ve made the Dragon no bigger than a salmon!

Mother.  Ah, well, I hope HER MAJESTY will be better pleased with it than I am, that’s all.

    [After which they fall into ecstasies over an industrial
    exhibit, consisting of a drain-pipe, cunningly encrusted with
    fragments of regimental mess-china set in gilded cement.

Before a large mechanical clock, representing a fortress, which is striking.  Trumpets sound, detachments of wooden soldiers march in and out of gateways, and parade the battlements, clicking, for a considerable time.

A Spectator (with a keen sense of the fitness of things).  What—­all that for on’y ’alf-past five!