(_A Legend of the "Coming Ninth."_)
"You _must_ let me have him on the day I have specified," said the
military-looking man, with an air of determination.
"And you order this, Sir, after learning his history?" replied the
well-educated cabman. "You know that he has been in a circus?"
"I do; it is one of his greatest qualifications. A circus, I think you
said, where there was a brass band?"
"Not only a brass band, but a very brassy band indeed; a brass band
all drum, trombone, and cymbal! A brass band that could be heard for
miles!"
"And he bore it well?" asked the ex-soldier. "He did not mind the
noise?"
"Not he," was the reply. "Why should he mind it? For remember he was
accustomed to insults from the clown. When a horse regards insults
from the clown with equanimity, you may be sure he will object to
nothing."
"And what were the nature of these insults?" queried the veteran
warrior, with renewed interest. "Did the clown push him about? Did he
tell him to gee-up?"
"Why, certainly. Had he been an unruly crowd at Blackheath on a Bank
Holiday, the clown could not have behaved worse. And _Rufus_, poor
beast! bore it all--six nights a week, with a _matinee_ thrown in on a
Saturday--without complaining."
"And you do not think he would mind being called 'cat's-meat?' Not
even by a rude boy?"
"Bless you, Sir, it is what I often call him myself. _Rufus_ is his
name, but cat's-meat is his nature. But don't you want him for more
than a day? Won't you buy him?"
"No," returned the veteran soldier, sternly. "I only require him for
the Ninth."
"He is getting too old for cabwork," argued the well-read driver. "He
would make a splendid charger for the adjutant of a Yeomanry corps,
and out of training might be put in the harness of a bathing-machine.
No, pray don't interrupt me, Sir. You are going to urge that he would
be useless in the winter. But no, Sir, you are wrong. He might take
round coal (in small quantities), when the nights draw in. Can I not
tempt you, Sir? You shall have him a bargain. Shall we say a penny a
pound?"
"I have already told you," replied the warrior, "that I have need of
him only on the 9th. You understand, the 9th of next month."
The well-read cab-driver nodded, and the two men parted. It was a
bargain. _Rufus_ (_alias_ "Cat's-meat") was to be ready for hire on
the 9th of November.
"What does he want to do with the brute?" the well-read cabman asked
himself again and again. "Surely he cannot mean to ride it? And yet he
desired to learn if _Rufus_ were up to his weight; and when I answered
Yes, his eyes brightened, and he regarded the animal with renewed
interest."
And all through the day the mystery puzzled him. He could not solve
the problem, try as he would. Suddenly, as he was discussing a cup of
tea in a shelter, a ray of light flooded his perplexed mind.
"Eureka!" he exclaimed; "the warrior must have been the City Marshal;
and he wanted _Rufus_ ('Cat's-meat'), of course, for the Lord Mayor's
Show!" And perhaps the cabman had guessed rightly. Only the future can
tell.
* * * * *
A QUESTION FOR SCOTCHMEN.--The Duke of ATHOLE announces that he is in
future to be described as the Duke of ATHOLL. Why has he changed his
name? Because he canna thole it.
A Duke cannot add to his stature a cubit,
Like the frog in the fable in vain he may swell;
And in vain does he alter his name with a new bit,
Its length is the same, though he tacks on an "l."
* * * * *
M. ZOLA is a Son of France. Around him are many literary planets and
stars, and imitators, shining with reflected light--the French Zolar
System. This is the Theory of _Mr. Punch_.
* * * * *
[Illustration: LIKA JOKO'S JOTTINGS. A GOLF MEETING.]
* * * * *