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Page 3
DEAR MR. PUNCH,
More than a fortnight ago I fled from the London fog, with the result
that it got thicker than ever about me in the minds of your readers
and yourself! I determined during my absence to do what many people
in the world of Art and _Letters_ have done before me, employ a
"Ghost"--(my _first_ dealings with the supernatural, and probably my
_last_!). I wired to one of the leading Sporting Journals for their
most reliable Racing Ghost--he was busy watching _Nunthorpe_--(who is
only the Ghost of what he was!)--and the Bogie understudy sent to
me was a Parliamentary Reporter!--(hence the stilted style of the
letter signed "POMPERSON." Heavens! what a name!)--I had five minutes
to explain the situation to him before catching the _train de
luxe_--(Lord ARTHUR had gone on with the luggage)--and I don't
think he had the ghostliest idea of what I wanted!--the one point he
grasped, was, that he was to use anonymous names--which he did with
a vengeance!--My horror on reading his letter was such that I
dropped all the money I had in my hand on the "red" instead of the
"black"--and it won!--(I think I shall bring out a system based on
"fright.")
Of course all my friends thought Lord ARTHUR and I had quarrelled,
and I was "off" with someone else!--What a fog. This idea being
confirmed by the following week's letter, which was the well-meant
but misdirected effort of my friend Lady HARRIETT ENTOUCAS, to whom
I wired to "do something for me"--(she pretty nearly did for me
altogether!)--there was nothing for it but to come home--where I
am--Lord ARTHUR wanted to write you this week, but I thought one
explanation at a time quite enough--so his shall follow--"if you want
a thing done, do it yourself!"--so in future I will either be my own
Ghost or have nothing to do with them! Yours apparitionally,
LADY GAY.
* * * * *
ALL ROUND THE FAIR.
NO. II.
INSIDE THE "QUEEN'S GRAND COLLECTION OF MOVING WAXWORKS
AND LIONS, AND MUSEUM DEPARTMENT OF FOREIGN WONDERS AND
NOVELTIES."
_The majority of the Public is still outside, listening
open-mouthed to a comic dialogue between the Showman and a
juvenile and irreverent Nigger. Those who have come in find
that, with the exception of some particularly tame-looking
murderers' heads in glazed pigeon-holes, a few limp effigies
stuck up on rickety ledges, and an elderly Cart-horse in low
spirits, there is little to see at present._
_Melia_ (_to JOE, as they inspect the Cart-horse._) This 'ere can't
never be the live 'orse with five legs, as they said was to be seen
inside!
_Joe._ Theer ain't no other 'orse in 'ere, and why _shouldn't_ it be
'im, if that's all?
_Melia._ Well, I don't make out no more'n _four_ legs to'un, nohow,
myself.
_Joe._ Don't ye be in sech a 'urry, now--the Show ain't _begun_ yet!
[Illustration: "It's quoite tri-ew!"]
[_The barrel-organ outside blares "God Save the Queen," and
more Spectators come stumping down the wooden steps, followed
by the Showman._
_Showman._ I shell commence this Exhibition by inviting your
inspection of the wonderful live 'orse with five legs. (_To
the depressed Cart-horse._) 'Old up! (_The poor beast lifts his
off-fore-leg with obvious reluctance, and discloses a very small
supernumerary hoof concealed behind the fetlock._) Examine it! for
yourselves--two distinct 'oofs with shoes and nails complete--a
_great_ novelty!
_Melia._ I don't call that nothen of a leg, _I_ don't--it ain't 'ardly
a _oof_, even!
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