asino! He is refused
admittance to the Casino, therefore this ticket of his spreads false
intelligence! It is a liar! It is a miserable! It should be called the
traitor ticket!" But all was useless. The gallant lad had to remain
with the umbrellas! I could not help sympathising with that father.
I could not refrain from agreeing with him, that where such a thing
was possible, something must be entirely wrong. I could not deny that
under the circumstances Ostend was a sham, a delusion, and a snare!
When he observed that Ostend was grotesquely expensive, I admitted
that he was right. When he said that it was not a patch upon Boulogne
or Dieppe, I again acquiesced. When he asserted that every English
tourist would be wise to avoid the place, I acknowledged that there
was the genuine ring of truth in his declaration. When he appealed to
me, as a dispassionate observer, to say whether I did not consider the
conduct of the authorities arbitrary, unjust, and absurd, I was forced
to admit that I _did_ consider that conduct absolutely indefensible.
Lastly, when he announced that he intended never to say another word
in praise of Ostend, I confessed that I had come in my own mind to the
same determination.

P.S.--I may add that I was accompanied by my son, who was also refused
admittance. But this is a matter of purely personal interest, and has
nothing whatever to do with it.

* * * * *

THE CACHET OF CASH AT DRURY LANE.

[Illustration: Medal found in the Neighbourhood of Drury Lane.]

_A Million of Money_, "a new military, sporting, and spectacular
Drama," is a marvel of stage management. No better things than the
_tableaux_ of the Derby Day, the grounds of the Welcome Club, and the
departure of the Guards from Wellington Barracks for foreign parts
have been seen for many a long year. In such a piece the dialogue is
a matter of secondary consideration, and even the story is of no great
importance. That the plot should remind one of Drury Lane successes
in the past is not surprising, considering that one of the authors
(who modestly places his name second on the programme, when everyone
feels that it should come first) has been invariably associated with
those triumphs of scenic art. AUGUSTUS DRURIOLANUS has beaten his
own record, and the _Million of Money_ so lavishly displayed behind
the scenes, is likely to be rivaled by the takings in front of the
Curtain--or to be more exact, at the Box-