machines, and think--

_Mr. F._ That Torture is a lost art? Isn't that what you were going to
say? But it's _not_, you know; we've refined it--that's all. Look at
the Photographer, and the Interviewer, and the Pathetic Reciter, and
the--

[_Mrs. F. endeavours to convince him that she didn't mean that
at all, and that he is comparing totally different things._

_An Aphoristic Uncle_ (_to an irreverent Nephew_). No. 89. "A
Long-spiked Wooden Roller, known as a 'Spiked Hare.'" You see, TOM,
my boy, the victim was--(_Describes the process._) "Some of the old
writers describe this torture as being most fearful," so the Catalogue
tells us.

_Tom-my-boy_ (_after inspecting the spikes_). Well, do you know,
Uncle, I shouldn't be at all surprised if the old Johnnies weren't so
far out.

_The Aph. Uncle._ Another illustration, my boy, of "Man's inhumanity
to Man"!

_Tom-my-boy._ Not bad for you, Uncle--only you cribbed it out of the
Catalogue, you know! [_The A.U. gives him up._

_An Indulgent Parent enters, leading a small boy in a tall
hat, and is presently recognised by the A.U._

_The A.U._ So you've brought your son to see this collection,