_Second Ditto_. 'Tis like a fishmonger's tank!

_First Ditto_. Pooh! 'tis lovely--when you're in it;
One bold header, and 'tis done!

_Second Ditto_. Ah, quite so, but--wait a minute,
Till I've warmed me with a run.
That will stir my circulation;
For the moment I am "friz."

_First Ditto_. _Magnifique!_ my dear relation;
But, you'll own, it is not "biz."

_Both_. We must o-o-o-ow-n it is not "biz!"

_Second Ditto_. Well, no, I suppose it isn't, ARTHUR. By the way,
what's that row behind there?

_First Ditto_. (_looking_). By Jove! it's that Gladstone gang! They've
tracked us! (_Sings_)--
They're after us! They're after us!
_We_'re the individuals they require.

_Second Ditto_. (_sardonically_). What a lyric _répertoire_ you have,
ARTHUR! Old English glee, Puritan psalmody. Music-hall song, all come
equally well to you, it seems. But those roughs mean mischief, Nephew
mine!

[Illustration: SPRING TIME IN LEAP YEAR.