d the limit."

"I will go home," exclaimed JONES; and he walked to his suburban villa.
But the place was locked up, and the servants did not dare to open the
door to him, as they had finished their legal spell of labour hours
before.

"Don't feel well," he murmured. "Will call upon my Doctor."

"Now, my dear Sir," said the medical man, as JONES appeared before him,
"you know I must not prescribe for you. The eight hours' limit was
reached at four."

"Then, I suppose I must die. Will the Act allow me to do _that_?"

"You, as a Barrister, ought to know best, my dear Sir. What is _your_
idea?"

"My idea?" echoed the considering JONES. "Well, I should say----But,
stay; I am not entitled to give a professional opinion until to-morrow
morning! Still, offhand I may observe, that such an illegal death would
savour of positive suicide; but it would not matter very much, as under
existing circumstances suicide in some form or other seems to me
inevitable!" And JONES was right!

* * * * *

[Illustration: MAXIMS FOR THE BAR. NO. V.

"A Curate may be cross-examined with comparative safety."]

* * * * *

IN THE KNOW.

(_By Mr. Punch's Own Prophet._)

Those who have carefully read the remarks which I have thought it my
duty to make in these columns from time to time, must have reaped a
golden harvest at Newmarket last week. It is not easy, of course, in
these milk-and-water days to say what one means in sufficiently plain
words. Personally, I have always been mild in my language, and have
often been reproached on this score. But I have always found it
possible, without using vulgar and exaggerated abuse, to express the
contempt which, in common with every right-minded man, I feel for the
grovelling herd of incompetent boobies, whose minds are as muddy as the
Rowley Mile after a thunderstorm. _Surefoot_ was always a favourite of
mine. Two months ago I said, "if _Surefoot_ can only face the starter
for the Two Thousand firmly, he will probably get off well, and ought
not to be far behind the first six at the finish. As to _Le Nord_,
though he is not my colour, he is not likely to be last." Only a
mooncalf, with a porridge-bowl instead of a head, could have mistaken
these remarks.

So Sir THOMAS CHUCKS has joined the ranks of aristocratic owners. Here
is a chance for the dilly-dallying professors of humbug to distinguish
themselves. What can be expected from