Mr. P. Quite so.  And you find it cheaper in the long run.

Mr. B. To be sure.  I have got much, too much to do to bother about the details of security from fire.

Mr. P. Again quite so.  Then why don’t you pay for your Army?

Mr. B. But I do, and a precious round sum too!

Mr. P. However, it is difficult to get recruits.  And in England any and everything can be bought by money.

Mr. B. Pardon me, Mr. Punch, that’s all nonsense.  Abroad, they can get soldiers at half the price that—­

Mr. P. (interrupting).  Quite wrong, Mr. BULL.  Soldiers are just as dear on the Continent as they are here.  Only, you see, the foreigners look after the fire themselves—­they become soldiers, instead of securing substitutes.

Mr. B. What do you mean?

Mr. P. That you must either pay the market price, or go in for conscription.  Your money—­or your life!

Mr. B. Well, I really think I must consider it—­I do, indeed!

Mr. P. And the sooner the better, Mr. BULL; and if you do not believe me, give Lord WANTAGE’s Committee Report a second reading.

    [Scene closes in upon Mr. JOHN BULL giving the document
    reconsideration.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  THINGS ONE WOULD RATHER HAVE LEFT UNSAID.

To our M.P., who rather fancies himself a great political force in the House. (Day before the Meeting of Parliament.)

“WELL, MR. BINKS!  AND WHAT BRINGS YOU UP TO TOWN?”]

* * * * *

THE BOGIE MAN.

(NEW AND STARTLING CIVIC VERSION.)

Gog and Magog sing, sotto voce:—­

  Oh, huddle near us, cherished ones! 
    Hushed is our civic glee. 
  The Voters, they have played the fool
    About the L.C.C. 
  Oh, Turtle, dear—­at table—­
    Oh, Griffin, spick and span,
  I hear the Civic Fathers say
    Here comes the Bogie Man!

  Chorus.

  Oh, hush! hush! hush! 
    Here comes the Bogie Man!
  What hope, dears, when BEN TILLETT
    Is made an Alderman? 
  Oh, whist! whist! whist! 
    He’ll catch ye if he can! 
  Then vain you’ll run, my popsey-wops,
    From this new Bogie Man!

  When we sit down to dinner,
    My giant chum and I,
  O’er calipash and calipee
    We’re both inclined to cry. 
  For if Progressist fingers
    Once dip into our pan,
  Aloud, but vainly, we may cry,
     Whist! whist! the Bogie Man!

  Chorus.—­Oh, hush! hush! hush! 
    Here comes the Bogie Man! 
  Then hide your heads, my darlings;
    He’ll catch ye if he can. 
  Then whist! whist! whist! 
    This new Progressive plan
  Would make our popsey-wopsey-wops
    Slaves to this Bogie Man!