OVERHEARD IN THE AMBULANCE DEPARTMENT.

Spectators (passing in front of groups of models arranged in realistic surroundings).  All the faces screwed up to suffering, you see!...  What a nice patient expression that officer on the stretcher has!  Yes, they’ve given him a wax head—­some of them are only papier mache....  Pity they couldn’t get nearer their right size in ’elmets, though, ain’t it?...  There’s one chap’s given up the ghost!...  I know that stuffed elephant—­he comes from the Indian Jungle at the Colinderies!...  I do think it’s a pity they couldn’t get something more like a mule than this wooden thing!  Why, it’s quite flat, and it’s ears are only leather, nailed on!...  You can’t tell, my dear; it may be a peculiar breed out there—­cross between a towel-horse and a donkey-engine, don’t you know!

IN THE INDIAN JUNGLE SHOOTING-GALLERY.

At the back, amidst tropical scenery, an endless procession of remarkably undeceptive rabbits of painted tin are running rapidly up and down an inclined plane.  Birds jerk painfully through the air above, and tin rats, boars, tigers, lions, and ducks, all of the same size, glide swiftly along grooves in the middle distance.  In front, Commissionnaires are busy loading rifles for keen sportsmen, who keep up a lively but somewhat ineffective fusillade.

’Arriet (to ’ARRY).  They ’ave got it up beautiful, I must say.  Do you get anything for ’itting them?

’Arry.  On’y the honour.

A Father (to intelligent Small Boy, in rear of Nervous Sportsman).  No, I ain’t seen him ’it anything yet, my son; but you watch.  That’s a rabbit he’s aiming at now....  Ah, missed him!

Small Boy.  ’Ow d’yer know what the gentleman’s a-aiming at, eh, Father?

Father.  ’Ow?  Why, you notice which way he points his gun.

    [The N.S. fires again—­without results.

Small Boy.  I sor that time, Father.  He was a-aiming at one o’ them ducks, an’ he missed a rabbit! [The N.S. gives it up in disgust.

Enter a small party of ’Arries in high spirits.

First ’Arry.  ’Ullo! I’m on to this.  ’Ere, Guv’nor, ’and us a gun. I’ll show yer ’ow to shoot!

    [He takes up his position, in happy unconsciousness that playful
    companions have decorated his coat-collar behind with a long piece
    of white paper.

Second ’Arry. Go in, JIM!  You got yer markin’-paper ready, anyhow.

    [Delighted guffaws from the other ’Arries, in which JIM joins
    vaguely.

Third ’Arry.  I’ll lay you can’t knock a rabbit down!

Jim.  I’ll lay I can!

    [Fires.  The procession of rabbits goes on undisturbed.

Second ’Arry (jocosely).  Never mind.  You peppered ’im.  I sor the feathers floy!