I presume you lost your shekels, and you think it rather low,
Since you're none of you as rich as NORTH or BARING.
But another time you'll get them back by being 'in the know,'
When a favourite is started for an airing.
"That's an odd sort of song," said _Mr. Punch_.
"Not so odd as the subject," replied the singer. "But you have only
heard the first verse; wait till you know the second."
"'But they didn't tell the public; it's a precious, jolly shame;'
(Such behaviour to the public seems to shock it)--
Now if _you'd_ been placed behind the scenes you wouldn't think the same,
But put principles and winnings in your pocket.
A gent who owns a stable doesn't always think of _you_,
And he doesn't seem to fancy profit-sharing.
And you really shouldn't curse him when he manages a 'do.'
With a favourite who's only on an airing."
Before the singer could proceed any farther, a frightful hubbub arose.
A pale, gasping wretch, rushed past, pursued by a howling, cursing mob
of ruffians. As he fled, he tripped, and fell, and in a moment they
were on the top of him, buffeting, and beating the very life out of
him.
"That's murder," said _Mr. Punch_. "Where are the police?"
And he was on the point of stepping down, to render assistance, when
his friend laid a hand upon his arm.
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