Tommy.  Why, only that Parpar asked him to come to-night because he was sure to cut up well.  You said I might!

[Sensation; Prompt departure of TOMMY for bed; moralising by Aunts; a spirit of perfect candour prevails; names are called—­also cabs; further hostilities postponed till next Christmas.

* * * * *

NOTE-PAPER CURRENCY AT CHRISTMAS.—­We see that a “Riparian” note-paper has been brought out by Messrs. GOODALL AND SON.  This “Riparian Paper”—­rather suggestive of “Rupee Paper”—­ought to be as safe as the Bank.  “G.  AND SON” (this suggests G.O.M. and Master HERBERT) should bring out The Loyers’ Note-paper, and call it “Papier Mashy.”

* * * * *

BLACK AND WHITE; OR, THE PHANTOM STEED!

(A TYPICAL GHOST STORY FOR CHRISTMAS, BY A WITNESS OF THE TRUTH.)

[Illustration]

I was walking in one of the slums in the neighbourhood of Oxford Street, some years ago, and always fond of horse-flesh (I had driven—­as a boy—­a bathing-machine for my pleasure along the wild coast line of the great Congo Continent) was greatly attracted by a hack standing within the shafts of a cart belonging to a funeral furnisher.  Like many of its class, the horse was jet black, with a long flowing tail and a mane to match.  As I gazed upon the creature the driver came out of the shop (to which doleful establishment the equipage belonged) and drove slowly away.  I felt forced to follow, and soon found myself outside a knacker’s yard.  Guessing the intention of the driver to treat his steed as only fit for canine food, I offered to purchase the seemingly doomed animal.  To my surprise, the man expressed his willingness to treat with me, and suggested that I might have the carcase at the rate of 4s. 113/4d. a pound.  Considering the price not excessive, I agreed, and, having weighed the horse at an automatic weighing machine, I handed over L100—­in notes.  Then the first strange thing happened.  Before I could replace my pocket-book in its receptacle in my coat, the driver had absolutely vanished!  I could not see him anywhere.  I was the more annoyed at this, as I found that (by mistake) I had given him notes on the Bank of Elegance, which everyone knows are of less value than notes on the Bank of England.  However, it was too late to search for the vendor, and I walked away as I could, leading by the bridle the steed I had so recently acquired.

It was now necessary to get quarters for the night, but I found, at that advanced hour, that many of the leading hotels were either full or unwilling to supply me with a bedroom-and-stable-combined until the morning.  I was refused firmly but civilly at the Grand, the Metropole, the Grosvenor, and the Pig and Whistle Tavern, South East Hackney.  At the latter caravanserai, the night-porter (who was busying himself cleaning the pewter pots) suggested that I should go to Bath.  Adopting this idea, I mounted my steed (which answered, after a little practice, to the name of Cats’-meat), and took the Old Kent Road until I reached St. Albans.