he answers. "But I've got another lot--"

"Good!" I interrupt him, rather abruptly I own, but, from experience
I say it, if I don't take myself when in the humour--'on the hop,' so
to speak, as they said of the _scarabæus_ in Kent--(trust _me_ for
natural history and plenty of it)--I'm no use at all. Now at this
moment I am wide awake, a giant refreshed; so I light another fragrant
weed, and call for another cool drink, as I haven't the smallest idea
what became of the one I ordered when the Gallant Graphist commenced
reading; I rather suspect he 'put it to his lips when so dispoged,'
and that, in this instance also, he mistook my nod for silent but
emphatic encouragement.

"Now," I say to the Amiable Amanuensis and Adaptable Author, "you
read your stuff aloud with emphasis and discretion, and I'll chuck in
the ornamental part. Excuse me, that's _my_ drink," I say, with an
emphasis on the possessive pronoun, for the Soldierly Scribe, in a
moment of absorption, was about to apply that process to my liquor. He
apologises handsomely, and commences his recital. In the absence of a
gong,--one ought never to travel without a gong,--I whack the tea-tray
with a paper-knife. "All in to begin!"

"_The mail train_," &c., &c. I make my notes, and remark that MURRAY
and BRADSHAW lost a great chance in not having long ago secured the
services of the Corresponding Captain. "_The railroad passes through
mountain scenery of exceptional_," &c., &c. BRADSHAW and MURRAY, not
to mention BAEDEKER and BLACK, absolutely not in it with the Wandering
Warrior. "_About thirty miles from Cape Town_"--

A SIMPLE SUGGESTION.