PUNCH.—­Be more respectful, sir, and reply to my questions.  It appears further, that several respectable persons have lost their honesty in your booth.

RUSS.—­Very little of that ’ere commodity is ever brought into it, my lud.

PUNCH.—­And, in short, that you and your colleagues’ hands have been frequently found in the pockets of your audience.

RUSS.—­Only in a professional way, my lud—­strictly professional.

PUNCH.—­But the most serious charge of all is that, on a recent occasion, when the audience hissed your performances, you put out the lights, let in the swell-mob, and raised a cry of “No Corn Laws.”

RUSS.—­Why, my lud, on that p’int I admit there was a slight row.

PUNCH.—­Enough, sir.  The court considers you have grossly misconducted yourself, and refuses to grant you license to perform.

MEL.—­But, my lord, I protest I did nothing.

PUNCH.—­So everybody says, sir.  You are therefore unfit to have the management of (next to my own) the greatest theatre in the world.  You may retire.

MEL. (to RUSS.)—­Oh!  Johnny, this is your work—­with your confounded hanky-panky.

RUSS.—­No—­’twas you that did it; we have been ruined by your laziness.  What is to become of us now?

MEL.—­Alas! where shall we dine?

* * * * *

The next individual who presented himself, to obtain a license for the Carlton Club Equestrian Troop, was a strange-loooking character, who gave his name as Sibthorp.

PUNCH.—­What are you, sir?

SIB.—­Clown to the ring, my lord, and principal performer on the Salt-box.  I provide my own paint and pipe-clay, make my own jokes, and laugh at them too.  I do the ground and lofty tumbling, and ride the wonderful donkey—­all for the small sum of fifteen bob a-week.

PUNCH.—­You have been represented as a very noisy and turbulent fellow.

SIB.—­Meek as a lamb, my lord, except when I’m on the saw-dust; there I acknowledge, I do crow pretty loudly—­but that’s in the way of business,—­and your lordship knows that we public jokers must pitch it strong sometimes to make our audience laugh, and bring the browns into the treasury.  After all, my lord, I am not the rogue many people take me for,—­more the other way, I can assure you, and

  “Though to my share some human errors fall,
  Look in my face, and you’ll forget them all.”

PUNCH.—­A strong appeal, I must confess.  You shall have your license.

The successful claimant having made his best bow to Commissioner Punch, withdrew, whistling the national air of

[Illustration:  “BRITONS, STRIKE HOME.”]

* * * * *

A fellow named Peel, who has been for many years in the habit of exhibiting as a quack-doctor, next applied for liberty to vend his nostrums at the fair.  On being questioned as to his qualifications, he shook his head gravely, and, without uttering a word, placed the following card in the hands of Punch.