Like a pup at a rat 'ole is beastly. Some stingy 'uns _carn't_ go the
pace,
But I know I should turn out a flyer, and so ought to be in the race.
Oh, it ain't every juggins, I tell yer, who's built for the bullion,
dear boy!
You must know the snide game that's called "Grab," you must know what
it means to "enjoy."
Neither one without tother's much use, but the true Ochre Kings are
the chaps
As can squeeze millions out of "the Masses." They win in life's game,
mate, by laps.
That's jest wot "the Masses" is made for; _them asses_ I calls 'em,
old man,
Same letters, same thing, dontcher know. Yus, Socierty's built on this
plan.
Many littles makes lots, that's the maxim; and he is the snide 'un,
no doubt,
Who can squeeze his lot out of the littles of half the poor mugs
who're about.
Twig, CHARLIE, old twister? Yer sweaters, yer Giant
Purviders, and such
Is all on that lay. Many buds, and one big bloated Bee, that's the
touch!
Wy, if bees was as many as blossoms, or blossoms as few as the bees,
Him as nicked a whole hive to hisself would find dashed little honey
to squeeze.
The honey--or money--wants _massing_, that's jest wot the Masses
can do--
And the "Classes," my boy, are the picked 'uns, as know 'ow to put on
the screw.
That's the doctrine of "DANNEL the Dosser," a broken-down
toff, as I know;
And if DANNEL ain't right, I'm a Dutchman. _That's_ ow
yer big money-piles grow.
Rum party the Dosser is, CHARLIE--I can't make him out, mate,
not quite.
Laps beer, when he can, like a bricky, though brandy's his mark. His
delight
Is to patter to me about Swelldom, Socierty, wot he calls gammon--
That's Ochre, dear boy, dontcher know. I suppose arf his gab is sheer
mammon.
He eyes me in sech a rum style, CHARLIE, sort of arf smile and
arf sneer,
Though he owns I'm a Dasher right down to the ground--when he's well
on the beer.
A pot and a pipe always dror him, and I'm always game to stand Sam,
For his patter's A1, and I pump 'im,--a lay as he stands like a lamb.
"You _ought_ to be rich, my young Cloten!" sez he. It's a part of
his game
To call me nicknames out of _Shakspeare_, and so on; but "Wot's in
a name?"
"My brain and your 'eart now together, would make a rare Dives," says
"Dosser."
I don't always know wot he means, and I doubt if _he_ does, poor
old josser!
'Owsomever, the Ochre's my toppic. Some jugginses talk about "Thrift,"
Penny Savings' Bank bosh, and that stuff. Wouldn't 'ave their dashed
brains at a gift.
_Save_, hay,--out of two quid a week! No, it doesn't fetch me in
that shape.
You must _swag_ in this world to get rich; if yer carn't, it's no
bottles to _scrape_.
The Turf or the Stock Exchange, CHARLIE, would suit me, I'd trust
to my luck,
And my leariness, _not_ to get plucked like that silly young
Ailesbury duck,
Wot's life without sport? Wy, like billiards without e'er a bet or a
fluke,
And that's wy I'd be a Swell Bookie--that is if I carn't be a Dook.
In fact if I 'ad my own chice, I should jest like to _double the
part_,
As I fancy a few on 'em do. Oh, Jemimer! jest give me a start.
With a 'undered or two, and the Ochre I'd pile 'twould take waggons to
carry.
The world loses larks, mate, you bet, when among the stone-brokers is
'ARRY.
* * * * *
TURNING TO THE LEFT.--At a recent meeting of the Court of Common Council
(in the teeth of a strong opposition of some of the members of the
Board) it was decided to exclude strangers and the Press during a part
of the proceedings. The matter under secret consideration, it is said,
was the appointment by the Recorder of the Assistant-Judge of the
Mayor's Court. It is rumoured that, acting on the opinion of Mr. R. S.
WRIGHT, (with him the Attorney-General) the Court decided not to confirm
that appointment. But why all this mystery? What had the Councillors to
fear? Obviously, they could be doing nothing wrong if they were
sustained by WRIGHT!
* * * * *
[Illustration: JUMPING AT CONCLUSIONS.
"WHO'S THAT _TINY_ LITTLE GENTLEMAN TALKING TO MAMMA, TOM?"
"MR. SCRIBBINS, THE WRITING MASTER AT OUR SCHOOL."
"AH! I SUPPOSE HE TEACHES _SHORT-HAND!_"]
* * * * *