III.—­REJOINDER OF THE “BRUMMAGEM BANTAM."

“’Itting below the belt be jolly well blowed!  Honest JOHN don’t believe a word ’e sez—­it’s ony his narsty spite.  Makes hisself the wiaduck for the ‘Arwarden Gang’s witrol and winegar, e’ do.  In course I wos one o’ the Old ’Un’s Company, wus luck!  But I’ve larned a bit since then.  Wot do you think?  When I larruped my old pals, and called ’em mugs, messers, and muddlers, in corse I included myself, tacit-like. But there was no call for to say so! As to not showing of ’em up acos I wos one of ’em—­Wal_ker_!!!  If that’s the Newcastle Nobbler’s ‘theory’ of fair-play, ’e may jest go ’ome and eat coke!”

(Comments of the I.B.H.  “The B.B. is quite right.  If a Pug may not round on his old pals for doing what he helped them to do, it follows that he himself must never try to do better.  Which is absurd!  Go it, JOE!")

IV.—­SURREJOINDER FROM “HONEST JOHN."

“My ‘theory’ ain’t a bit wot the B.B. says it is.  My ‘theory’ is that it’s mean, and unfair, and unperfessional to curry favour with one’s present backers by ’olding hup one’s old pals to public redicule for doing wot we ’elped ’em to do, and at the time praised ’em for doin’.  I call that ‘hitting below the belt!’ And I believe every ‘onest and manly Pug from FIGG to SAYERS would ha’ said ditter to ‘’Onest JOHN.’  That’s all, Gemmen!”

(Comment of the I.B.H.  “Bosh!  JOE’s style of hitting is no doubt uncomfortable—­for the Old ’Un and his pals.  THAT’S EXACTLY WHY WE LIKE IT!  What’s the use of hitting above the belt only when the foe’s only vulnerable below it?  We rejoice to see the B.B. knocking the sawdust out of the Grand Old Fistic Fetish, and squelching the cant and claptrap out of ‘Honest JOHN.’")

* * * * *

STORICULES.

VII.—­GAZEY.

“You’re the fust pineter whort I’ve knowed,” said JULIA SANBY, demurely.  “Father works at a plumber’s, but ’e ain’t industr’us.  ’E ain’t a good man.  An’ mother drinks.  Orful!”

JULIA SANBY had consented, in consideration of money received, to let me make a sketch of her.  She was a tall thin child, with a dirty and very intelligent face, great grey eyes, and long reddish hair.  She was very bright and talkative; and yet she amazed me by being distinctly sanctimonious.  She looked critically round my studio on her entrance.

[Illustration]

“You ain’t got no tex’ ’ung up,” she remarked, disparagingly.  “We ’as two tex’ in our kitching.  I ’ung ’em up myself.  An’ father beat me for it.  But I didn’t keer, ‘cos I knew I wos doin’ good.”

She pressed her thin lips together, and looked like a mangled martyr.

“Do you go to Sunday School?” I asked, as I got to work.

“I goes reggler, an’ I’m first in the School, and I knows more colics than any of ’em, excep’ teachers.  I ain’t like GAZEY.”