Mr. Punch Awheel Part 12

MOTOR CAR-ACTERISTICS

(_By an Old Whip_)

Jerking and jolting, Bursting and bolting, Smelling and steaming, Shrieking and screaming, Snorting and shaking, Quivering, quaking, Skidding and slipping, Twisting and tripping, b.u.mping and bounding, Puffing and pounding, Rolling and rumbling, Thumping and tumbling.

Such I've a notion, Motor-car motion.

Ill.u.s.tration: ADDING INSULT TO INJURY

_Cyclist_ (_to Foxhunter, thrown out_), "Oi say, Squoire, 'ave you seen the 'ounds?"

Ill.u.s.tration: TRUE PHILOSOPHY.--_Ploughman._ "Ah, things be different like wi' them an' us. They've got a trap wi' no 'osses, an' we 'm got 'osses wi' no trap."

Ill.u.s.tration: THE RECKLESS ONE

_Wife of Injured Cyclist_ (_who, having found considerable difficulty in getting on his bicycle, and none whatever in coming off, has never ventured to attempt more than three miles in the hour_). "Well, I do believe he's had a lesson at last! I warned him about 'scorching.' I said to him, what have _you_ got to do with the 'record'?"

Ill.u.s.tration: AN INOPPORTUNE TIME

Jones, while motoring to town to fulfil an important engagement, has the misfortune to get stuck up on the road, and has sent his chauffeur to the village for a.s.sistance. In the meantime several village children gather around and sing, "G.o.d rest you, merry gentleman, let nothing you dismay," etc.

The Great Motor Mystery.--At Lancaster two motorists were fined, according to the _Manchester Evening News_, "for driving a motor-car over a trap near Carnforth, at twenty-nine and thirty-four miles per hour respectively." We are of the opinion that the action of the second gentleman in driving at so high a speed over the poor trap when it was already down was not quite in accordance with the best traditions of English sport.

Ill.u.s.tration: BREAKING IT GENTLY.--

_Pa.s.ser-by._ "Is that your pork down there on the road, guv'nor?"

_Farmer._ "Pork! What d'ye mean? There's a pig o' mine out there."

_Pa.s.ser-by._ "Ah, but there's a motor-car just been by."

Ill.u.s.tration: EXCLUSIVE.--

_Fair Driver._ "Will you stand by the pony for a few minutes, my good man?"

_The Good Man._ "Pony, mum? No, I'm a motor-minder, I am. 'Ere, Bill!

'Orse."

CRAZY TALES

The d.u.c.h.ess of Pomposet was writhing, poor thing, on the horns of a dilemma. Painful position, very. She was the greatest of great ladies, full of fire and fashion, and with a purple blush (she was born that colour) flung bangly arms round the neck of her lord and master. The unfortunate man was a shocking sufferer, having a bad unearned increment, and enduring constant pain on account of his back being broader than his views.

"Pomposet," she cried, resolutely. "Duky darling!"

(When first married she had ventured to apostrophise him as "ducky," but His Grace thought it _infra dig._, and they compromised by omitting the vulgar "c.")

"Duky," she said, raising pale distinguished eyes to a Chippendale mirror, "I have made up my mind."

"Don't," expostulated the trembling peer. "You are so rash!"

"What is more, I have made up yours."

"To make up the mind of an English Duke," he remarked, with dignity, "requires no ordinary intellect; yet I believe with your feminine hydraulics you are capable of anything, Jane."

(That this aristocratic rib of his rib should have been named plain Jane was a chronic sorrow.)

"Don't keep me in suspense," he continued; "in fact, to descend to a colloquialism, I insist on Your Grace letting the cat out of the bag with the least possible delay."

"As you will," she replied. "Your blood be on your own coronet. Prepare for a shock--a revelation. I have fallen! Not once--but many times."

"Wretched woman!--I beg pardon!--wretched Grande Dame! call upon Debrett to cover you!"

"I am madly in love with----"

"By my taffeta and ermine, I swear----"

"Peace, peace!" said Jane. "Compose yourself, ducky--that is Plantagenet. Forgive the slip. I am agitated. My mind runs on slips."

The Duke groaned.

"Horrid, awful slips!"

With a countenance of alabaster he tore at his sandy top-knot.

"I have deceived you. I admit it. Stooped to folly."

A supercilious cry rent the air as the Duke staggered on his patrician limbs.

With womanly impulse--flinging caste to the winds--Jane caught the majestic form to her palpitating alpaca, and, watering his beloved features with d.u.c.h.essy drops, cried in pa.s.sionate accents, "My King! My Sensitive Plant! Heavens! It's his unlucky back! Be calm, Plantagenet. I have--been--learning--to--_bike_! There! On the sly!"

The Duke flapped a reviving toe, and squeezed the august fingers.