glow.

Then you're popped in a big iron cage, where the 'ose plays upon
you like fun;
A lawn, or a house a-fire, CHARLIE, could not be more thoroughly
done.
Sez I, "I'm _insured_, dontcher know, mate; so don't _waste_ the
water, d'ye 'ear?"
But he didn't appear to arf twig. He seemed jest a bit thick in
the clear.

Then the bars of yer cage bustes out like a lot of scent fountings
a-play--
'Taint _oder colong_, though, by hodds; sulphur strong seems the
local _bokay_.
They call this the "Needle Bath," CHARLIE. It give _me_ the needle
fust off;
'Cos the spray would git into my eyes, and the squelch made me
sputter and cough.

Then they wrop you well up in 'ot towels, and leave yer five
minutes to bake,
And that's the "_Aix Douche_," as they call it. _I_ call it the
funniest fake
In the way of a bath I 'ave met with; but, bless yer, it passes
the time,
And _I_ shan't want a tub for a fortnit when back in Old
Babbylon's grime.

Dull 'ole, this 'ere 'Arrygate, CHARLIE! The only fair fun _I_ can