"I wonder what all this is about," observed _Mr. Punch_; "suppose we
ask a Policeman?"

They noticed a being attired in every respect like the familiar
guardians of the peace on Earth, except that he carried a harmless
and gaily-decked bladder in place of the more serviceable _bâton_, and
beckoned to him. He approached with polite alacrity.

"You want to know what's up, Gents?" he commenced, divining their
purpose instinctively. "It's the Half-Quarterly Meeting of the Solid
Gold Extract of Brick-Dust Company. There's been some little talk
about the dividend not being quite so good as the prospectus led the
shareholders to believe, and as the shares have been mostly taken up
by widows and orphans, some of their friends, you see, are a little
anxious to hear the Chairman's Report. But, you see, it'll be all
right."

At this moment a widow, with blanched cheeks and dishevelled hair,
who had been listening with an anxious and eager gaze to what the
Policeman had been saying, joined the group.

_Mr. Punch_ looked at her with mournful sympathy, and slowly turning
the ring on his finger, addressed the Policeman. "Tell me, my good
man," he said, persuasively, "is that the truth? Is it really all
right?"

"All right?" rejoined the guardian of the peace in amazement, but
apparently unconscious of the purport of his speech, "I should rather
think not. Call it 'all wrong' and then you'll about hit it. Why it's
well known that the patent's all _fudge_. It's the biggest swindle