THE MAYOR’S DAUGHTER.

South Canterbury Times, Issue 4985, 18 April 1889, Page 4

THE MAYOR’S DAUGHTER.

literature

PART I. * There,’ Buddlecombe exclaimed toan attentive congregation of furniture, ‘ there,s the effect of the military. For nearly a quarter of a century have Georgina and I hit it off with tolerable tranquillity. We have never, or hardly ever, descended to personal abuse. Oh the bare approach of the military, however, she becomes rampagious, calls me a brute, and sings an improper song. ‘O, is’nt he a darling/ indeed ! There they go, the noisome noisy brood, turning' this once pure and peaceful Puddleton into a pandemonium.’

This last alliterative sentence referred to the strains of the band, which had been getting lender and louder, until now in a rch wave of sound they broke upon Mr Buddlecombes ears. Mingling' with the music were the cheers of the crowd and the peals of joy-bells from many a church steeple. ‘O, is’nt that enough to drive anyone in his senses out of them!’ ejaculated Mr Buddlecombe. ‘Are these legalised and caressed assassins and cut-throats to be allowed thus to turn the beautiful harmony of Puddleton’s existence into this abominable discord? No military man shall ever darken my door with his presence, or may J be ’

Here most opportunely a sudden apparition at the open window diverted Mr Buddlecombe’s thoughts. It was that of a man, ail in white from head to foot, enthusiastically waving a ladle over his head.

‘Yivela gloire !’ shouted the man in white, with his eyes starting out of his bead. ‘ Vive za allies ot la France. Vive .Napoleon. En avant.. Eep-peep-puree ! ’ And with one final frantic wave of his ladle, he dashed on to join the throng ot spectators, wildly vociferating, ‘ Eep-peep-puree,’ which there are some grounds for believing was an attempt at an English cheer. ‘ Dear me, that’s my new French cook,’ said Mr Buddlecombe, quite taken aback for a few moments. ‘ Hi,’ he shouted, as be recovered himself and rushed to the window ; ‘ hi, I say, C’est magnifique, mais ce n’est pas — what you’re paid your salary for, mong garsong!’ It is hardly necessary to add that this had not the slightest effect ; and Mr Buddlecombe was turning once more to his chair, with a superhuman effort at resignation, when a housemaid ran past the window, shrilly shouting : * Three cheers for the soldiers. ’lpJ ip-’ip-’ooray !’ ‘ One month’s warning from this day you Jezebel,’ snouted Mr Buddlecombe from the window.

Then a footman ran past cheering, then a scnllerytnaid, waving a duster and shouting : ‘ Down with the perlice. The milingtary for ever.’ ‘ O, do you know, if this sort of thing goes on,’ said Mr Buddlecombe. in tones of blank despair, ‘ the whole house will be converted into a lunatic asylum, and I shall enjoy the luxury of a strait-waistceat and a padded cell all to myself. X —-I—I feel at this moment that if it wasn’t for my naturally calm disposition I should break down under the mental strain.’

An obsequious individual of between fifty and sixty years of age, in a swal-low-tailed coat,entered the room with a deference that was almost ahjec r . This was Mr Spigot, the butler. ‘ Why don’t ysu go and cheer. Spigot ?’ said Mr Buddlecombe, with grim irony. ‘ No, your worship,’ replied Spigot, who was quite aware of his master’s antipathy for the army. ‘ I have taken the liberty of coming to convince your worship by my presence that I would’nt r’emean myself by doing so. I don’t approve of the military, your worship. Far from it. The only good I know of soldiers is, that they’re a bit of a hantidote to the police. When a young girl forms a hopeless detachment for a policeman, she cures herself by falling in love with a soldier. That’s the only good I know of soldiers, and that, your worship, is a recommendation I don’t think worth going and hollering myself hoarse over.’ ‘ Spigot,’ said Mr Buddlecombe, warmly, ‘ you have proved yourself worthy of the position of trust which you hold.’ ‘Thank you, your worship,’ saidt he obsequious Spigot, and with a low bow lie withdrew.

‘ I wonder what abominable folly my wife and daughter, under the leadership of that old buffoon Bolitho, are up to,’ thought Mr Buddlecombe, as he went to the window, and looked out. ‘Hullo, what do I see,’ he exclaimed starting with indignation. ‘ Georgina in the Character of Beauty, is about to “ crown Yalour,” and is preparing to throw the bouquet at the Colonel ! Georgina, your disgracing ’ What had happened P The band stopped playing in evident confusion, the first instrument to give in being the big drum. At the same time Mr Buddlecombe’s demeanour underwent a startling change. In the midst of a most scathing denunciation of his wife’s conduct, his contracted brow relaxed, and he burst into a loud laugh. He held his sides ; he smote first one legarid then the other ; he rocked himself backwards and forwards, and he laughed until the tears ran down his cheeks. f O dear, she crowned Valour with a vengeance. She’s hit the colonel s charger over the head with a bouquet, and tie’s reared up, and then put his near off leg, or whatever they call it, through the big drum. And (he whole procession is thrown into confusion. And old Joe Bolilho, who has rushed through the lodge-gates to apologise, is falling a victim to popular indignation. G, delicious. Yes, I’ll cheer, I’ll cheer now.’ And standing on tip toes at the window, Mr Buddlecombe put his hand to the side of his mouth, and gave vent to bis feelings.

‘ Hooray, hooray. Go it. Give it to old Bolitho. He’s always at his practical jokes. He did it on purpose. Duck him in the horse pond ! Hooray.’ These ebullitions speedily brought Mr Spigot on the scene again, aghast and alarmed, ‘ Why, he’s gone off his worshipful chump/ gasped the faithful old retainer after standing for several moments in speechless astonishment. (To he Continued.')