PUNCH.—­Humph!  I am sorry to say I have received several complaints of the manner in which you have conducted the business of your establishment for several years.  It appears you put forth bills promising wonders, while your performances have been of the lowest possible description.

RUSS.—­S’elp me, Bob! there ain’t a word of truth in it.  If there’s anything we takes pride on, ’tis our gentility.

PUNCH.—­You have degraded the drama by the introduction of card-shufflers and thimble-rig impostors.

RUSS.—­We denies the thimble-rigging in totum, my lud; that was brought out at Stanley’s opposition booth.

PUNCH.—­At least you were a promoter of state conjuring and legerdemain tricks on the stage.

RUSS.—­Only a little hanky-panky, my lud.  The people likes it; they loves to be cheated before their faces.  One, two, three—­presto—­begone.  I’ll show your ludship as pretty a trick of putting a piece of money in your eye and taking it out of your elbow, as you ever beheld. Has your ludship got such a thing as a good shilling about you?  ’Pon my honour, I’ll return it.

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.