_The Steward_ (_coming up_). De dickets dat I haf nod yed seen!
(_examining_ CULCHARD's _coupons_). For Bingen--so?

_Culch. I_ am. This gentleman gets off--is it Bacharach or Maintz,
PODBURY?

_Podb._ (_sulkily_). Neither, as it happens. I'm for Bingen, too, as
you won't go anywhere else. Though you _did_ say when we started, that
the advantage of travelling like this was that we could go on or stop
just as the fancy took us!

_Culch._ (_calmly_). I did, my dear PODBURY. But it never occurred to
me that the fancy would take you to get tired of a place before you
got there!

_Podb._ (_as he walks forwards_). Hang that fellow! I know I shall
punch his head some day. And She didn't seem to care whether I stayed
or not. (_Hopefully._) But you never _can_ tell with women!

[_He returns to his camp-stool and the letter-reading Old
Ladies._

* * * * *

A SONG IN SEASON.

'Twas the autumn time, dear love,
The English autumn weather;
And, oh, it was sweet, it was hard to beat