A

I got from Roget's Thesaurus, we should have been safer. Sending in a word like "disgusting" was sheer waste of one-and-twopence! And as for Pompilia, with her synonyms to "sensational," and Priscilla, with her rubbishy superstition, depend upon it, they're no good!

Pompilia. You think you know so much, because you've been to London University—but we've been to a High School; so we're not absolute idiots. Parmenas!

Priscilla. And I'm sure people have dreamt which horse was going to win a race over and over again!

Mr. S. Come, come, let us have none of these unseemly disputes! And, when you compare a literary competition with—ah—a mere gambling transaction, Priscilla, you do a grave injustice to us all. You forget that we have, all of us, worked hard for success; we have given our whole thoughts and time to the subject. I have stayed at home from the office day after day. Your mother has had no leisure for the cares of the household; your brother has suspended his studies for his approaching examination, and your elder sister her labours at the East End—on purpose to devote our combined intelligence to the subject. And are we to be told that we are no better than the brainless multitude who speculate on horse-racing! I am not angry, my child, I am only—(Enter Robert, the Page, with a paper in a postal wrapper.) Tiddler's Miscellany—ha, at last! Why didn't you bring it up before, Sir? You must have known it was important!

Robert. Please, Sir, it's on'y just come, Sir.

Mr. S. (snatching the paper from him, and tearing it open; the other members of the family crowd round excitedly). Now we shall see! Where's the place? Confound the thing! Why can't they print the result in a——(His face falls.) What are you waiting for, Sir? Leave the room!

[To Robert, who has lingered about the sideboard.

Robert. Beg pardon, Sir, but would you mind reading out the Word—'cause I'm——

The Family. Read the Word, Papa, do!

Mr. S. (keeping the Journal). All in good time. (Addressing Robert.) Am I to understand, Sir, that you have actually had the presumption to engage in this competition?—an uneducated young rascal like you!

Robert. I didn't mean no harm, Sir, I sent in nothink—it was on'y a lark, Sir!

The Family (dancing with suspense). Oh, never mind Robert now, Father—do read out the Word!

Mr. S. (ignoring their anxiety). If you sent in nothing, Sir, so much the better. But, in case you should be tempted to such a piece of infatuation in future, let me tell you this by way of—ah—warning. I and my family, have, with every advantage that superior education and abilities can bestow, sent in, after prolonged and careful deliberation, no less than two hundred and fifty separate solutions, and not a single one of these solutions, Sir, proves to be the correct one!

The Family (collapsing on the nearest chairs). Oh, it can't be true—one of them must be right!

Mr. S. Unfortunately, they are not. I will read you the sentence as completed. (Reads.) "Should such a contingency happen, the number of these feathered songsters included in the catastrophe would, in all probability, be simply—ah—nought!" Now I venture to assert that nothing short of—ah—absolute genius could possibly—— (To Robert.) What do you mean by interrupting me, Sir?

Robert. Please, Sir, I said nothink, Sir!

Pompilia. Oh, what does it matter? Give me the paper, Papa. (She snatches it.) Oh, listen to this:—"The number of solutions sent in was five hundred thousand, which means that twenty-five thousand pounds remain for division. The only competitor who gave the correct solution was Mr. Robert Conkling, of Linoleum Lodge, Camberwell...." Oh! Why, that's you, Robert!

Robert. Yes, Miss, I told you I said "Nothink," Miss. I'm sure if I'd thought——

Mr. S. (gasping). Twenty-five thousand pounds! Ah, Robert, I trust you will not forget that this piece of—ah—unmerited good fortune was acquired by you under this humble roof. Shake hands, my boy!

Pompilia. Wait, Papa—don't shake hands till I've done—(continuing)—"Mr. Conkling, however, having elected to disregard our conditions, requiring the solution to be written out in full, and to express the word "Nought" by a cipher, we cannot consider him legally entitled to the prize——"

Mr. S. How dare you use my private address for your illiterate attempts, Sir?

Prisc. (seizing the paper). Why don't you read it all?——"We are prepared, nevertheless, to waive this informality, and a cheque for the full amount of twenty-five thousand pounds, payable to his order, will be forwarded to Mr. CONKLING accordingly——"

Mr. S. Well, Robert, you deserve it, I must say—shake hands!—I—ah—mean it.

Robert. Thankee, Sir, I'm sure—it was Cook and Jane 'elped me, Sir, but—(dolefully)—I sold my chanst to the butcher-boy, for tuppence and a mouth-orgin, Sir.

Mr. S. You unspeakable young idiot! But there, you will know better another time; and now go out at once, and order five hundred copies of Tiddler—a periodical which offers such intellectual and—ah—substantial advantages, deserves some encouragement. (Exit Robert.) Now Mother, Parmenas, girls—all of you, let us set to work, and see—just for the—ah—fun of the thing—if we can't be more fortunate with the next competition. We'll have Cook and Jane, and—ah—Robert in to help; the housework can look after itself for once ... what is it now, Priscilla?

Prisc. (faintly). I've just seen this. (Reads.) "In consequence of the recent decision at Bow Street, those who send solutions for this, and any future competitions, will not be required to forward any remittance with their coupons——"

Mr. S. (approvingly). An admirable arrangement—puts a stop at once to any pernicious tendency to—ah—speculation!

Prisc. (continuing)—"and successful competitors must, we fear, be content with no other reward than that of honourable mention."

Mr. S. Here, send after Robert, somebody! It's scandalous that the precious time of a whole family should be frittered away in these unedifying and—ah—idiotic competitions. I will not allow another Tiddler to enter my house!

Robert (entering with his arms full of "Tiddlers"). Please, Sir, I brought a 'undred, Sir, and they'll send up the rest as soon as ever they——Oh Lor, Sir, I on'y done as I was told, Sir!

[He is pounced upon, severely cuffed by a righteously indignant family, and sent flying in a whirlwind of tattered "Tiddlers," as the Scene closes.

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