turdays.

And then, all, in a monthly volume, as Medleys for the Month. I
distinctly see Popgood and Groolly's rapid and colossal fortune. Then
there'd be a quarterly. Why not _Quarterly Quips_? No, this is not
sufficiently general. [N.B. Joke by a man on a treadmill might be termed
a _Quip on a Crank_.]

_Happy Thought._--_Quantity and Quality, a Quarterly Quintessence._
_Quips, Quiddities, Quibbles, and Quirks_, by ... dear me, I want to say
"ready writers"--that's the style of _nom de plume_ required.

_Plume_ is suggestive. I have it.

_Happy Thought._--"_Quick Quills._" Popgood's advertisement will say,
"The above Quarterly by Quick Quills."

Now I'll begin.

Knock at the door. Mr. Orby Frimmely wants to know if I will stroll out
with him and meet the Signor returning.

With pleasure. Leave the sayings for another Sunday.

We stroll.

[Illustration: AWAY!]

CHAPTER XIX.

A WALK WITH SIGNOR REGNIATI.

_THE PROSAIC GENTLEMAN._

_Weather fine. We are out for a walk. Mr. Orby Frimmely, of the City,
represents the Prosaic. I put myself down as the Poetic, and the Signor
as the Enthusiastic. To us a small man in clerical black and Roman
collar._

_The Signor_ (_saluting cleric_). Ah, Father Cuthbert. 'Ow you do?
(_Introduces us._) You 'ave got beautiful flowers.

_Father C._ (_alluding to the bunch in his hand_). _Flores martyrum._
You have heard that we are ordered off for active service in China.

_Self._ China! (_We see in our "mind's eye, Horatio" the fearful
tortures recently practised upon Christians in China and are
speechless._)

_Frimmely_ (_the Prosaic_). Ah! You must take care what you're about
there. (_Surprise of the Reverend F. Cuthbert._) The Government won't
protect you, you know (_he says this as if the reverend gentleman was
going to China to rob an orchard_).

_Father C._ No. It will not. (_Nobly._) We go to suffer and to preach
the faith.

_Signor._ Oh, my Jo! I should not like to be eat. I 'ope you vill not
go. Let us know before you start.

_Father C._ (_cheerfully_). It is certain. I'm afraid I shan't be at the
College to see you next Sunday. Good-bye.

[_Exit Father C._

_We continue our walk._

_Myself_ (_the poetical_). Ah! What a grand lot! What a high and holy
calling. Here we are, striving for comfort, and perhaps for fame, there
the missioner goes forth, to die, perhaps in