fear on that account, m'Lord.
Elastic's the word, m'Lord. We've any number of different trees, and our
leather is warranted to stretch to any extent. We'll even alter our
favourite old-fashionable cut to suit such customers as _you_!

[Illustration: MAKING IT EASY.

SHOEMAKER (_most accommodating_). "THE OTHER FITS ALL RIGHT,
M'LORD--THIS ONE WAS A BIT TIGHT,--BUT NOW I'VE EASED IT YOU'LL BE ABLE
TO WEAR IT WITH PERFECT COMFORT. WE CAN'T AFFORD TO LOSE YOUR CUSTOM,
M'LORD!"]

_Customer._ Thanks. The fashion _is_ changing a
little, I fear. I don't want to leave you, and I won't go back to G.--if
I can help it. If his brogue should become the vogue--but there, it's
shocking to think of it. Give us a decent fit which we can wear in
public without reproach, and we'll stick to you. But how about this
boot?

_Shoemaker (with effusion)._ Oh, we'll alter it to _any_ extent, to suit
your taste, m'Lord, though it isn't exactly the cut upon which our House
has always prided itself. There! It _was_ a bit tight, but now I've
eased it you'll be able to wear it with perfect comfort. We can't afford
to lose _your_ custom, m'Lord!

* * * * *

[Illustration: THE CONVENTIONAL MISSIONARY WHO COULDN'T CONVERT THE
SULTAN.

"Sir DRUMMOND WOLFF'S Mission is at an end."--_Papers generally._]

* * * * *

'ARRY ON ANGLING.

DEAR CHARLIE,

'Ow are yer, my arty, and 'ow does this Summer suit _you?_
Selp me never, old pal, it's a scorcher! _I_ lap lemon-squosh till
all's blue,
And then feel as dry as a dust-bin. Want all SPIERS and POND'S
upon trust,
For it do make a 'ole in the ochre to deal with a true first-class thust.

But it's proper, dear boy, yus it's proper, this weather is,
took on the 'ole,
And for 'oliday outings and skylarks it sets a chap fair on the roll.
Where d'yer think as I spent my last bust up? I know you'd be out
of the 'unt
If you guessed for a 'ole month o' Sundays. I passed it, old pal,
_in a punt!_

"O Walker!" sez you, "that's 'is gammon!" No, CHARLIE, it's righteous,
dear boy.
It's quite true that to chivvy Thames hanglers is jest what we used
to enjoy.
Rekerlek that old buffer at Richmond, and 'ow we shoved foul of his swim,
And lost him a middlin'-sized barbel and set his straw tile on the skim?

Hangling isn't my mark, that's a moral, and fishermen mostly is fools;
To