IN THE AVENUE FACING THE ARENA.

An Unreasonable Old Lady (arriving breathless, with her grandson and niece). This'll be the place the balloon goes up from, I wouldn't miss it for anything! Put the child up on that bench, Maria; we'll stand about here till it begins.

Maria. But I don't see no balloon nor nothing.

[Which, as the foliage blocks out all but the immediate foreground is scarcely surprising.

The U. O. L. No more don't I—but it stands to reason there wouldn't be so many looking on if there wasn't something to see. We're well enough where we are, and I'm not going further to fare worse to please nobody; so you may do as you like about it.

[Maria promptly avails herself of this permission.

The U. O. L. (a little later). Well, it's time they did something, I'm sure. Why, the people seem all moving off! and where's that girl Maria got to? Ah, here you are! So you found you were no better off?—Next time, p'raps you'll believe what I tell you. Not that there's any War Balloon as I can see!

Maria. Oh, there was a capital view from where I was—out in the open there.

The U. O. L. Why couldn't you say so before? Out in the open! Let's go there then—it's all the same to me!

Maria (with an undutiful giggle). It's all the same now—wherever you go, 'cause the balloon's gone up.

The U. O. L. Gone up! What are you telling me, Maria?

Maria. I see it go—it shot up ever so fast and quite steady, and the people in the car all waved their 'ats to us. I could see a arm a waving almost till it got out of sight.

The U. O. L. And me and this innercent waiting here on the seat like lambs, and never dreaming what was goin' on! Oh, Maria, however you'll reconcile it to your conscience, I don't know!

Maria. Why, whatever are you pitching into me for! The U. O. L. It's not that it's any partickler pleasure to me, seeing a balloon, though we did get our tea done early to be in time for it—it's the sly deceitfulness of your conduck, Maria, which is all the satisfaction I get for coming out with you,—it's the feeling that—well, there, I won't talk about it!

[In pursuance of which virtuous resolve, she talks about nothing else for the remainder of the day, until the unfortunate Maria wishes fervently that balloons had never been invented.

IN THE BUILDING.

An admiring group has collected before an enormous pin-cushion in the form of a fat star, and about the size of a Church-hassock.

First Soldier (to his Companion). Lot 'o work in that, yer know!

Second Soldier. Yes. (Thoughtfully.) Not but what—(becoming critical)—if I'd been doin' it myself, I should ha' chose pins with smaller 'eds on 'em.

First S. (regarding this as presumptuous). You may depend on it the man who made that 'ad his reasons for choosing the pins he did—but there's no pleasing some parties!

Second S. (apologetically). Well, I ain't denying the Art in it, am I?

First Woman. I do call that 'andsome, Sarah. See, there's a star, and two 'arps, and a crownd, and I don't know what all—and all done in pins and beads! "Made by Bandsman Brown," too! [Reading placard.

Second W. Soldiers is that clever with their 'ands. Four pounds seems a deal to ask for it, though.

First W. But look at the weeks it must ha' took him to do! (Reading.) "Containing between ten and eleven thousand pins and beads, and a hundred and ninety-eight pieces of coloured cloth!" Why, the pins alone must ha' cost a deal of money.

Second W. Yes, it 'ud be a pity for it to go to somebody as 'ud want to take 'em out. First W. It ought to be bought up by Gover'ment, that it ought—they're well able to afford it.

A select party of Philistines, comprising a young Man, apparently in the Army, and his Mother and Sister, are examining Mr. Gilbert's Jubilee Trophy in a spirit of puzzled antipathy.

The Mother. Dear me, and that's the Jubilee centrepiece, is it? What a heavy-looking thing. I wonder what that cost?

Her Son (gloomily). Cost? Why, about two days' pay for every man in the Service!

His Mother. Well, I call it a shame for the Army to be fleeced for that thing. Are those creatures intended for mermaids, with their tails curled round that glass ball, I wonder? [She sniffs.

Her Daughter. I expect it will be crystal, Mother.

Her Mother. Very likely, my dear, but—glass or crystal—I see no sense in it!

Daughter. Oh, it's absurd, of course—still, this figure isn't badly done. Is it supposed to represent St. George carrying the Dragon? Because they've made the Dragon no bigger than a salmon!

Mother. Ah, well, I hope Her Majesty will be better pleased with it than I am, that's all.

[After which they fall into ecstasies over an industrial exhibit consisting of a drain-pipe, cunningly encrusted with fragments of regimental mess-china set in gilded cement.

Before a large mechanical clock, representing a fortress, which is striking. Trumpets sound, detachments of wooden soldiers march in and out of gateways, and parade the battlements, clicking for a considerable time.

A Spectator (with a keen sense of the fitness of things). What—all that for on'y 'alf past five!

OVERHEARD IN THE AMBULANCE DEPARTMENT.

Spectators (passing in front of groups of models arranged in realistic surroundings). All the faces screwed up to suffering, you see!... What a nice patient expression that officer on the stretcher has! Yes, they've given him a wax head—some of them are only papier-mÂchÉ.... Pity they couldn't get nearer their right size in 'elmets, though, ain't it?... There's one chap's given up the ghost!... I know that stuffed elephant—he comes from the Indian Jungle at the Colinderies!... I do think it's a pity they couldn't get something more like a mule than this wooden thing! Why, it's quite flat, and its ears are only leather, nailed on!... You can't tell, my dear; it may be a peculiar breed out there—cross between a towel-horse and a donkey-engine, don't you know!

IN THE INDIAN JUNGLE SHOOTING-GALLERY.

At the back, amidst tropical scenery, an endless procession of remarkably undeceptive rabbits of painted tin are running rapidly up and down an inclined plane. Birds jerk painfully through the air above, and tin rats, boars, tigers, lions, and ducks, all of the same size, glide swiftly along grooves in the middle distance. In front, Commissionnaires are busy loading rifles for keen sportsmen, who keep up a lively but somewhat ineffective fusillade.

'Arriet (to 'Arry). They 'ave got it up beautiful, I must say. Do you get anything for 'itting them?

'Arry. On'y the honour.

A Father (to intelligent Small Boy in rear of Nervous Sportsman). No, I ain't seen him 'it anything yet, my son; but you watch. That's a rabbit he's aiming at now.... Ah, missed him!

Small Boy. 'Ow d'yer know what the gentleman's a-aiming at, eh, Father?

Father. 'Ow? Why, you notice which way he points his gun.

[The N. S. fires again—without results.

Small Boy. I sor that time, Father. He was a-aiming at one o' them ducks, an' he missed a rabbit! [The N. S. gives it up in disgust.

Enter a small party of 'Arries in high spirits.

First 'Arry. 'Ullo! I'm on to this. 'Ere Guv'nor', 'and us a gun. I'll show yer 'ow to shoot!

[He takes up his position, in happy unconsciousness that playful companions have decorated his coat-collar behind with a long piece of white paper.

Second 'Arry. Go in, Jim! You got yer markin'-paper ready anyhow.

[Delighted guffaws from the other 'Arries, in which Jim joins vaguely.

Third 'Arry. I'll lay you can't knock a rabbit down!

Jim. I'll lay I can!

[Fires. The procession of rabbits goes on undisturbed.

Second 'Arry (jocosely). Never mind. You peppered 'im. I sor the feathers floy!

Third 'Arry. You'd ha' copped 'im if yer'd bin a bit quicker.

Jim (annoyed). They keep on movin' so, they don't give a bloke no chornce!

Second 'Arry. 'Ave a go at that old owl.

[Alluding to a tin representation of that fowl which remains stationary among the painted rushes.

Third 'Arry. No—see if you can't git that stuffed bear. He's on'y a yard or two away!

An Impatient 'Arry (at doorway). 'Ere, come on! Ain't you shot enough? Shake a leg, can't yer, Jim?

Second 'Arry. He's got to kill one o' them rabbits fust. Or pot a tin lion, Jim? You ain't afraid?

Jim. No; I'm goin' to git that owl. He's quiet any way.

[Fires. The owl falls prostrate.

Second 'Arry. Got 'im! Owl's orf! Jim, old man, you must stand drinks round after this!

[Exeunt 'Arries, to celebrate their victory in a befitting fashion, as Scene closes in.