THE BUSY BISLEY

Scene—Within measurable distance of Woking. Enter lounger and marksman R. and L.

Lounger (heartily). Why, I am glad to see you! And how are things going on?

Marksman (cordially, but abruptly). Capitally! Good-bye!

Loung. But I say, what a hurry you are in! Can't you stop a minute for a chat?

Marks. Another time, but just now moments are precious.

Loung. But I say, you see I have found myself here—it doesn't take much longer than getting down to Wimbledon.

Marks. Of course it doesn't—whoever said it did? But there, old chap, I must be off!

Loung. You are in a hurry! Ah, we used to have pleasant days in the old place?

Marks. Did we? I daresay we did.

Loung. Why, of course! Grand old days! Don't you remember what fun it used to be decorating your tent; and then, when the ladies came down—which they did nearly all the day long—what larks it was getting them tea and claret-cup?

Marks. Very likely. But we don't have many ladies now, and a good job, too—they are a bore.

Loung. Well, you are a chap! Why, how can there be any fun without your sisters, and your cousins, and your maiden aunts?

Marks. We don't want fun. But there, good-bye!

Loung. But I say, I have come all this way to look you up.

Marks. (unbending). Very kind of you, my dear fellow, you have chosen rather an unfortunate time.

Loung. Why, at Wimbledon you had nothing to do!

Marks. Very likely. But then Bisley isn't Wimbledon.

Loung. (dryly). So it seems. Everyone said that when they moved the camp further away from home, they would ruin the meeting.

Marks. Then everyone was wrong. Why, we are going on swimmingly.

Loung. It must be beastly dull.

Marks. Not at all. Lovely country, good range, and, after it rains, two minutes later it is dry as bone.

Loung. Yes, but it stands to reason that it can't be as popular as Wimbledon.

Marks. My dear fellow, figures are the best test of that. In all the history of the Association we never had more entries than this year.

Loung. That may be, but you don't have half the fun you had nearer town.

Marks. (laughing). Don't want to! Business, my dear fellow, not pleasure! And now, old man, I really must be off. Ta! ta! See you later.

[Exit.

Loung. Well, whatever he may say, I prefer Wimbledon. And as there doesn't seem much for me to do down here, I shall return to town.

[Does so. Curtain.

Irascible Lieutenant (down engine-room tube). "Is there a blithering idiot at the end of this tube?"

Voice from Engine-room. "Not at this end, sir!"

Volo Episcopari.

Festive Middy. "I say, guv'nor! I think you must rather like being Bishop here!"

His Lordship. "Well, my boy, I hope I do! But why do you ask?"

Festive Middy. "Oh, I've just been taking a walk through the city,—and I say!—there is an uncommonly good-looking lot o' girls about, and no mistake!"

A Nasty One.

Colonel Smithson (of the Poonah Marines). "By the way, my boy at Sandhurst hopes to get into your regiment some day."

Little Simpson (of the Royal Hussars Green). "Aw—I—aw hope your son is up to our form!"

Colonel Smithson. "Your form! Dash it, he's over four feet high, anyhow!"

A Caution.

Old Gent (with difficulty). "Now really—Oh! this dis—graceful crowding—I'm—I'm positive my gun will go off!"

Cheek.

(The regiment is about to "march out" with twenty rounds of "blank cartridge.") Sub-Lieutenant (of twenty-four hours' service). "Whereabouts is this pyrotechnic display of yours coming off, Colonel!!?"

Overheard at Portsmouth.

Jack. "Well, Polly lass, if it's true as 'ow you're going to get spliced to Bill, all I 'opes is that he'll stick to you through thick and thin!"

Polly. "Well, 'e ought to, Jack. 'E works in a glue factory."

"Awful bore, dear old chap. War offith won't have me, thimply becauth my eyethight ith tho doothed bad!"

ARMS OF PRECISION

Volunteer Subaltern (as the enemy's scout continues to advance in spite of expenditure of much "blank" ammunition). "If that infernal yeoman comes any nearer, shy stones at him, some of you!"

A FORLORN HOPE

Captain O'Dowd (of the firm of O'Dowd and Jones, stock-jobbers). "What'll I do now? It's beyond me jumpin' powers, an' if I wade I'll be wet to the waist." (To Private Halloran, who in civil life is a stockbroker's clerk). "Here, Halloran, I want a carry over. You do it for me, an' I'll not forget it to you, me lad."

Private Halloran. "Sorry I can't, Captain. You know carryin'-over day is not till the sixteenth, an' this is only the seventh!"