“All right?” rejoined the guardian of the peace in amazement, but apparently unconscious of the purport of his speech, “I should rather think not.  Call it ‘all wrong’ and then you’ll about hit it.  Why it’s well known that the patent’s all fudge.  It’s the biggest swindle out.  No more in it than in this here bladder.  But you’ll see; the whole thing’s burst, and you’ll know it in a minute.”

The words were scarcely out of his mouth when a roar of a thousand angry voices, followed by a sudden rush from the building of a mad and raging crowd, obliged Mr. Punch, for a moment, to pause.  When the uproar had somewhat subsided, he turned to the Policeman, and pointed feelingly to the unfortunate widow, who had fallen on to an apple-stall in a fit of hysterics, and, locking his arm in that of his aged companion, proceeded to cross the square.  “Give us a song, old ’un!” shouted a portion of the mob, who had followed them.

“Certainly.  Oblige them!” added Mr. Punch, taking a banjo from one of the crowd and placing it in Father TIME’s hands.  “Give them a stanza of the Ballad of Truth.”

He turned his ring, and his aged companion struck up the following ditty:—­

  “Know ye the land where dwells only mock-turtle,
    Where wine that should gladden but makes you fell queer. 
  Where bayonets bend, where guns burst and hurtle
    Their breech in the face of their friends at the rear,
  Where lamps labelled ‘safety’ with just terrors fill you,
    Where water supplied you for milk is no theft,
  Where pills that should cure, if persisted in, kill you
    And the ‘Hair Resurrector’ takes all you’ve got left! 
  Where soap, that should soften your skin, only flays you,
    Where a horse proves a screw though got through a friend,
  Where the loss of your ‘cover’ confounds and dismays you,
    Though assured by the Firm ‘if you hold on t’will mend’? 
  Know ye, in fine, where by pushing and ‘rushing,’
    This—­and much more, down the public throat crams,
  Blatant Advertisement, brazen, unblushing—? 
    If you do, then you’ve spotted the Planet of Shams.”

[Illustration]

Though a few paving-stones were hurled at the aged singer, the conclusion of his sons was greeted by a general roar of laughter, the populace apparently recognising the picture of their own chicanery with amusement and relish.

After that they held on their way for some minutes in silence.  They had now reached the other side, and were confronted by a couple of respectable-looking gentlemen of an almost clerical aspect, who appeared to be catering in the public streets in the interests of some institution.  They approached Mr. Punch and Father TIME, and offered them a prospectus.

“‘THE DEAR LITTLE CHILDREN’S HAPPY AND ELEGANT BURIAL INSTITUTION,’” read Mr. Punch, surveying the paper presented to him, and continuing, “’A trivial payment of Ninepence a Month will ensure the youthful Subscriber, or his Representative, a sweet and elegantly-constructed little Coffin, beautifully frilled, with a one-black-horse Family Omnibus Hearse, and a tray of Two Handsome Plumes.  N.B.—­if preferred, payment of L2 19s. 6d. in cash on production of Corpse.’”