Mr. F. It’s no use going on like this.  Turn back.

Peacock.  I dursn’t leave the kerb—­all I got to go by, Sir.

Mr. F. Then take one of the lamps, and lead the horse.

Peacock.  It’s the young ’orse, Sir.

Mr. F. (sinking back).  We must put up with it, I suppose.

    [A smart crack is heard at the back of the carriage.

More Voices.  Now, then, why the blanky dash, &c., &c.

Mrs. F. MARMADUKE, I can’t sit here, and know that a bus-pole may come between us at any moment.  Let us get out, and take a cab home at once.

Mr. F. There’s only one objection to that suggestion—­viz., that it’s perfectly impossible to tell a cab from a piano-organ.  We must find out where we are first, and then turn.  PEACOCK, drive on as well as you can, and stop when you come to a shop.

Mrs. F. What do you want to stop at a shop for?

Mr. F. Why, then I can go in, and ask where we are.

Mrs. F. And how do you expect them to know where we are! (She sees a smear of light in the distance.) MARMADUKE, there’s a linkman.  Get out quick, and hire him to lead the way.

Mr. F. (who gets out, and follows in the direction of the light, grumbling to himself).  Hallo!—­not past the Park yet—­here’s the railings!  Well, if I keep close to them, I shall—­(He suddenly collides with a bench.) Phew!  Oh, confound it! (He rubs his shins.) Now, if it hadn’t been for FANNY, I—­Where’s that linkman?  Hi!—­you there!—­stop! (The light stops.) Look here—­I want you to come to my carriage, and show my man the way out of this!

Voice from behind the Railings.  We got to find our own way out fust, Guv’nor.  We’re inside!

A Belated Reveller (lurching up to Mr. F.) Beg your pardon, bur cou’ you dreck me nearesht way—­er—­Dawshon Plashe?

Mr. F. (savagely).  First turning to the right, third to the left, and then straight on till you come to it!

The B.R..  I’m exsheedingly ’blished; (confidentially) fact ish, I’m shuffrin’ shli’ ‘fection eyeshi’, an’ I ’shure you, can’t shee anyshing dishtingly to-ni’. (He cannons against a lamp-post, to which he clings affectionately, as a Policeman emerges from the gloom.)

Policeman.  Now then, what are you doing ’ere, eh?

The B.R. Itsh all ri’, P’lishman, thish gerrilman—­(patting lamp-post affectionately)—­has kindly promished shee me home.

Mr. F. Hang it!  Where’s PEACOCK and the brougham? (He discovers a phantom vehicle by the kerb, and gets in angrily.) Now, look here, my dear, it’s no earthly good—!

Occupant of the Brougham (who is not FANNY).  Coward, touch a defenceless woman if you dare!  I have nothing on me of any value.  Help!  Police!