Now, however, all is changed.  In an evil moment for himself, DABCHICK speculated largely and successfully in the Gold Trust of Guatemala.  In a very short time his income was multiplied by ten.  The usual results followed.  The happy home in Balham was given up.  “People about here,” said DABCHICK, “are such poor snobs”—­and a more ornate mansion in South Kensington was taken in its stead.  The old friends and the old habits were dropped.  JOHNNY DABCHICK was sent to Eton with an immoderate allowance of pocket-money, and was promptly christened “PEKOE” by his schoolfellows.  Mrs. DABCHICK rides in a huge landau with blue wheels, and leaves cards on the fringes of the aristocracy.  DABCHICK himself aspires to Parliament, and never keeps the same circle of friends for more than about six months.  He knows one shady Viscount to whom rumour asserts that he has lent immense sums of Guatemalan money, and the approach of a Marquis makes him palpitate with emotion.  But he is a profoundly miserable man.  Of that I am assured.  It amuses me when I meet him in pompous society to address him lightly as “DAB,” and remind him of the dear old Balham days, and the huge amount of bird’s-eye we used to smoke together.  For his motto now is, “Delenda est Balhamia”—­I speak of course figuratively—­and half-crown havannahs have usurped the place of the honest briar.  I know the poor wretch is making up his mind to cut me, but I must bear it as best I may.

Now, my dear Sir or Madam, for this melancholy deterioration in the DABCHICKS you are entirely responsible.  I am saddened as I contemplate it, and I appeal to you.  Scarify Dukes and Duchesses, make vain and useless social prigs as miserable as you like, but leave the DABCHICKS of this world alone.  They are simple folk, and really I cannot think that the game is worth the candle.

Believe me to be, your obedient servant,

DIOGENES ROBINSON.

* * * * *

BROADLY SPEAKING.

Advised by friend to try Norfolk Broads for holiday.  Oulton Broad, Wroxham Broad, Fritton Decoy (curious name!), Yare, Waveney, and no end of other rivers.  Yachting, shooting, fishing, pretty scenery, divine air, he says.  Have come down to Yarmouth for a start.

Up the Bure in a yacht, and into river Thurne.  All right so far.  Fish scarce.  My pilot says, “wait till I get to Hickling Broad. Full of bream and roach.”  I agree to wait.

In Hickling Broad.  Surprised to find notice-boards up all round saying, “sailing” is prohibited in the Broad, also fishing and shooting!  “What’s the meaning of this?” I ask pilot.  He says, “it’s all the doings of the Lord of the Manor.”  Wants to keep the Broad free from tourists.  He certainly does it “as to the Manor born.”  Quite a village autocrat.  Shall I be the “Village HAMPDEN?” I will.

Fishing.  Several men on bank shouting at me.  One comes off in a boat and serves me with a summons.  This might almost be called a Broad hint to go away!  But I don’t go.  I stop and fish.  Another man comes off in boat and threatens me with action “on behalf of riparian owners.”  Tell him “ripe-pear-ian season isn’t till Autumn, and I shall wait here till then.”  He doesn’t see the joke—­perhaps too broad for him.