Part 12 (2/2)

(_Leans across the L. OF F. and out of the window._) Well, good-bye, my girl; take care of yourself.

The FIANCeE (_with a hysterical giggle._) Oh, I'll take care o' _my_ self.

[_Looks at the roof of the carriage._

HE (_with meaning_). No more pickled onions, eh?

SHE. What a one you are to remember things! (_After a pause._) Give my love to Joe.

HE. All right. Well, Jenny, just one, for the last. (_They embrace loudly, after which the F. resumes his seat with an expression of mingled sentiment and complacency._) Oh (_to L. OF F._), if you don't mind my stepping across you again, Mum. Jenny, if you see d.i.c.k between this and Friday, just tell him as----

[_Prolonged whispers; sounds of renewed kisses; final parting as train starts with a jerk, which throws the FINACe upon the L. OF F.'S lap. After the train is started a gleam of peculiar significance is observable in the eyes of one of the Seafaring_ _Men, who is reclining in an easy att.i.tude on the seat. His companion responds with a grin of intelligence, and produces a large black bottle from the rack. They drink, and hand the bottle to the FIANCe._

The F. Thankee, I don't mind if I do. Here's wis.h.i.+ng you----

[_Remainder of sentiment drowned in sound of glug-glug-glug; is about to hand back bottle when the first SEAFARER intimates that he is to pa.s.s it on. The L. OF F. recoils in horror._

BOTH SEAFARERS. It's _wine_, Mum!

[_Tableau. The LADY OF FAMILY realises that the study of third-cla.s.s humanity has its drawbacks._

[Ill.u.s.tration]

THE FARMING OF THE FUTURE; OR, WHAT BRITISH AGRICULTURE IS COMING TO.

_A Car on the Electric Light Railway. TIME.--Twentieth Century._

FIRST FARMER (_recognising Second Farmer_). Why, 'tis Muster Fretwail, surelie! didn't see it was you afore. And how be things gettin' along with _you_, Sir, eh?

FARMER FRETWAIL (_lugubriously_). 'Mong the middlin's, Muster Lackaday; 'mong the middlin's! Nothen doin' just now--nothen 't all!

THIRD FARMER (_enviously_). Well, _you_ hevn't no call fur to cry out, neighbour. I see you've got a likely lot o' noo 'oardins comin' up all along your part o' the line. I wish mine wur arf as furrard, I know thet!

F. FRETWAIL. Ah, them ”Keep yer 'air on”'s, _you_ mean, Ryemouth. I don't deny as they was lookin' tidy enough a week back. But just as I was makin' ready fur to paint up ”Try it on a Billiard Ball,” blamed if this yere frost didn't set in, and now theer's everything at a standstill, wi' the brushes froze 'ard in the pots!

F. RYEMOUTH. 'Tis the same down with me. Theer's a acre o' ”Bunyan's Easy Boots” as must hev a noo coat, and I cann't get nothen done to 'en till the weather's a bit more hopen like. Don' keer _'ow_ soon we hev a change, myself, I don't!

F. LACKADAY. Nor yet me, so long as we don't 'ave no gales with it.

Theer was my height acre pasture as I planted only las' Candlemas wi'

”Roopy's Lung Tonics”--wunnerful fine and tall they was, too--and ivery one on 'en blowed down the next week!

F. FRETWAIL. Well I 'ope theer wun't be no rain, neither, come to that.

I know I had all the P's of my ”Piffler's Persuasive Pillules” fresh gold-leaved at Michaelmas, and it come on wet directly arter I done it, and reg'lar washed the gilt out o' sight an' knowledge, it did. Theer ain't no standin' up agen rain!

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