(_A Pleasant Prospect suggested by the evidence taken before the Royal
Commission_.)
And so the Un-employed rose from the ditch in which he had passed the
night, and made for the town. It was early morning, and he thought he could
possibly get something to do at the baker's.
"Want to work?" cried the foreman. "Why, my good fellow, it is all over for
the next two days. The trade only allows four hours, so we begin at eight
on one night, and carry it on until four on the following morning. People
get their loaves a little stale, but old bread is said to be good for the
digestion!"
So the Unemployed went on until he came to a half-built house. The workmen
had left, but there was still a watchman on the premises.
"Want to work! Why _what_ are you thinking about! Why, our trade only
allows two hours a day, so we build a house by laying foundation-stones. It
is rather slow, but very sure."
So the starving man continued his journey. He was unsuccessful at every
trade centre. One industry allowed its members to work only for three hours
a day, another two, a third four, and so on. There was only one exception
to the rule, and this (so the doctor thinks) was caused by necessity. The
undertakers were fully employed twelve hours out of the twenty-four. Even
the public-houses were closed at noon. The workhouses and casual wards were
never empty.
But being of a sanguine temperament, the Unemployed cheered his drooping
spirits by murmuring, "Better luck to-morrow!" Then he retired to his
rather damp quarters in the country ditch!
* * * * *
Literary Intelligence.
_Airy opening of article by_ Mr. GINLEY SCORCHSAM, _a rising young author_.
"Asked by Editor of _Magazin des Louvres_ to let him have a paper on Art as
Applied to Drapery----"
_Note by the Agonised Editor_ (_who has been struggling with MS. for
several hours_). "And he _did_ let me have it, with a vengeance!"
* * * * *
[Illustration: A SCENE AT THE "LUCULLUS."
_Mrs. Blunderby_. "Now, MY DEAR MONTY, LET ME ORDER THE LUNCHEON
AR-LA-FRAINGSY. GASSONG! I WISH TO BEGIN--AS WE ALWAYS DO IN PARIS, MY
DEARS--WITH SOME _CHEF-D'OEUVRES_--YOU UNDERSTAND--SOME _CHEF-D'OEUVRES."_
[_Emile, the Waiter, is in despair. It occurs to him however, presently that
the Lady probably means "Hors d'oeuvres," and acts accordingly_.]
* * * * *