How Anarchists are made.

Sleepy members of the audience would be hastily awakened by their friends.  We would stagger to our feet.  The Sisters Trippet, with eyes fixed on the chandelier, would lead us: to the best of our ability we would sing “God save the Queen.”

There have been evenings when I have sung “God save the Queen” six times.  Another season of it, and I should have become a Republican.

The singer of patriotic songs is generally a stout and puffy man.  The perspiration pours from his face as the result of the violent gesticulations with which he tells us how he stormed the fort.  He must have reached it very hot.

“There were ten to one agin us, boys.”  We feel that this was a miscalculation on the enemy’s part.  Ten to one “agin” such wildly gesticulating Britishers was inviting defeat.

It seems to have been a terrible battle notwithstanding.  He shows us with a real sword how it was done.  Nothing could have lived within a dozen yards of that sword.  The conductor of the orchestra looks nervous.  Our fear is lest he will end by cutting off his own head.  His recollections are carrying him away.  Then follows “Victory!”

The gas men and the programme sellers cheer wildly.  We conclude with the inevitable “God save the King.”