t's the silliest sort of a weddin' as
iver _I_ see!

_Joe._ He do seem to be 'avin' it a good deal to 'isself, don't 'e?

_Showman._ He will now conclude 'is entertainment by porsin round,
and those who would like to shake 'ands with 'im are welcome to do so,
while at the same time, those among you who would like to give 'im a
extry copper for 'isself you will 'ave an opportunity of noticin' the
funny way in which he takes it.

_Spectators_ (_as the Zulu begins to slink round the tent, extending a
huge and tawny paw_). 'Ere, _come_ arn!

[_The booth is precipitately cleared._

* * * * *

"_WRITE Letter Days_" should be the companion volume to _Red Letter
Days_, published by BENTLEY.

* * * * *

[Illustration: THAT IT SHOULD COME TO THIS!

_Boy._ "SECOND-CLASS, SIR?"

_Captain._ "I NEVAH TRAVEL SECOND-CLASS!"

_Boy._ "THIS WAY THIRD, SIR!"]

* * * * *

CONVERSATIONAL HINTS FOR YOUNG SHOOTERS.

THE SMOKING-ROOM.

The subject of the Smoking-room would seem to be intimately and
necessarily connected with the subject of smoke, which was dealt with
in our last Chapter. A very good friend of mine, Captain SHABRACK of
the 55th (Queen ELIZABETH'S Own) Hussars, was good enough to favour
me with his views the other day. I met the gallant officer, who is,
as all the world knows, one of the safest and best shots of the day,
in Pall Mall. He had just stepped out of his Club--the luxurious
and splendid Tatterdemalion, or, as it is familiarly called, "the
Tat"--where, to use his own graphic language, he had been "killing the
worm with a nip of Scotch."

"Early Scotch woodcock, I suppose," says I, sportively alluding to the
proverb.

"Scotch woodcock be blowed," says the Captain, who, it must be
confessed, does not include an appreciation of delicate humour amongst
his numerous merits; "Scotch, real Scotch, a noggin of it, my boy,
with soda in a long glass; glug, glug, down it goes, hissin' over the
hot coppers. You know the trick, my son, it's no use pretendin' you
don't"--and thereupon the high-spirited warrior dug me good-humouredly
in the ribs, and winked at me with an eye which, if the truth must be
told, was bloodshot to the very verge of ferocity.

"Talkin' of woodcock," he continued--we were now walking along Pall
Mall together--"they tell me you're writin' some gas or other about
shootin'. Well, if you want