Sir John. Certainly—­one is the British Fleet, and the other is not the British Fleet.  But is there no bond of union?

Lord George. Most assuredly there is—­you pay for both.  But, pardon me, I beg you will not further interrupt me.  So, now that we have the two Fleets face to face, or, I should say, bow to starn, we proceed exactly as if there were a real quarrel between them.  We spend money on coal, we spend money on pay, we spend money on ammunition.  Nay, by my life, we spend money on everything—­just as we should do if war were really declared!  That’s simple enough.

Sir John. I confess your plan does seem simple.

Lord George. And there is more behind.  We are not satisfied with merely spending money—­we learn a lesson as well.  Come, you must confess that surprises you?

Sir John. Well, I admit that generally, where there is any spending of money, it is I who learn the lesson.

Lord George. Good—­distinctly good!  But let us be serious.  Well, when we are carrying on a war by every means in our power, we fancy that one Fleet is chasing the other.  They both have equal speed, and we give one Fleet twenty-four hours’ start of the other, and will you believe me that, although the first follows the second as fast as may be from the beginning to the end of the manoeuvring, they never see one another!  On my life—­never!  They never see the British Fleet, because it’s not in sight!

Sir John.  But could you not have learned all this without so great an expenditure of money?

Lord George. Well, no, Sir JOHN—­not at the Admiralty!

Sir John. And how do you end the farce?

Lord George. In the usual fashion, Sir JOHN (ignites blue fire)—­in smoke!

[The characters are lost in the fog customary to the occasion.  Curtain.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  A SEVERE SABBATARIAN.

Mr. Bung (Landlord of “Ye Pygge and Whistle"). “SUNDAY LEAGUE, INDEED! I’D SUNDAY LEAGUE ’EM, IF I’D A CHANCE!—­BREAKIN’ THE LORD’SD’Y, AND HINTERFERIN’ WITH MY TRYDE!”]

* * * * *

“SHADOWED!”

  Shadowed!  Ay, even in the holiday season,
    The Statesman, in his hard-earned hour of ease,
  Is haunted by forebodings, and with reason. 
    What is that spectre the tired slumberer sees? 
  The foul familiar lineaments affright him;
    Its pose of menace and its pointing hand
  To caution urge, to providence invite him,
    To foil this scourge of the Distressful Land.

  Who does not fear to speak of Forty-Seven,
    When that same Shadow darkened all the isle? 
  Is it abroad once more?  Avert it, Heaven! 
    On Order’s lips it chills the dawning smile;
  Awakener of hushed fears and hatreds dying,
    Blighter of more than Nature’s genial growth,
  Herald of hungering lips, of children crying,
    To hold thee imminent all hearts are loth.