At the back, amidst tropical scenery, an endless procession of
remarkably undeceptive rabbits of painted tin are running rapidly
up and down an inclined plane. Birds jerk painfully through the air
above, and tin rats, boars, tigers, lions, and ducks, all of the
same size, glide swiftly along grooves in the middle distance. In
front, Commissionnaires are busy loading rifles for keen sportsmen,
who keep up a lively but somewhat ineffective fusillade.
_'Arriet_ (_to_ 'ARRY). They 'ave got it up beautiful, I must say. Do
you _get_ anything for 'itting them?
_'Arry_. On'y the honour.
_A Father_ (_to intelligent Small Boy, in rear of Nervous Sportsman_).
No, I ain't seen him 'it anything _yet_, my son; but you _watch_.
That's a rabbit he's aiming at now.... Ah, _missed_ him!
_Small Boy_. 'Ow d'yer _know_ what the gentleman's a-aiming at, eh,
Father?
_Father_. 'Ow? Why, you notice which way he points his gun.
[The N.S. fires again--without results.
_Small Boy_. I sor that time, Father. He was a-aiming at one o' them
ducks, an' he missed a rabbit! [The N.S. gives it up in disgust.
_Enter a small party of 'Arries in high spirits._
_First 'Arry_. 'Ullo! _I_'m on to this. 'Ere, Guv'nor, 'and us a gun.
_I_'ll show yer 'ow to shoot!
[He takes up his position, in happy unconsciousness that playful
companions have decorated his coat-collar behind with a long piece
of white paper.
_Second 'Arry._ Go in, JIM! You got yer markin'-paper ready, anyhow.
[Delighted guffaws from the other 'Arries, in which JIM joins
vaguely.
_Third 'Arry_. I'll lay you can't knock a rabbit down!
_Jim_. I'll lay I can!
[Fires. The procession of rabbits goes on undisturbed.
_Second 'Arry_ (_jocosely_). Never mind. You _peppered_ 'im. I sor
the feathers floy!
_Third 'Arry._ You'd ha' copped 'im if yer'd bin a bit quicker.
_Jim_ (_annoyed_). They keep on movin' so, they don't give a bloke
no chornce!
_Second 'Arry._ 'Ave a go at that old owl.
[Alluding to a tin representation of that fowl which remains
stationary among the painted rushes.
_Third 'Arry._ No--see if you can't git that stuffed bear. He's on'y
a yard or two away!
_An Impatient 'Arry_ (_at doorway_). 'Ere, come _on_! Ain't you shot
enough? Shake a leg, can't yer, JIM?
_Second 'Arry._ He's got to kill one o' them rabbits fust. Or pot a
tin lion, JIM? _You_ ain't afraid!
_Jim_. No; I'm goin' to git that owl. He's _quiet_ any way.
[Fires. The owl falls prostrate.
_Second 'Arry_. Got 'im! Owl's _orf_! JIM, old man, you must stand
drinks round after this!
[Exeunt 'Arries, to celebrate their victory in a befitting
fashion, as Scene closes in.
* * * * *