Punch, or the London Charivari | Page 3

spelt his name. He put his
hand into his pocket and produced a card. On it was engraved, 'J.M.
QUAYLE.' Then I understood. It was the spelling that puzzled
Leopold."
* * * * *
THE NEW APPEAL.

We observe with interest the latest development in the London
Press--the appearance of the new Labour journal, The Daily Nail.
In the past, attempts to found a daily newspaper for the propagation of
Labour views have not always met with success. Possibly the fault has
been that they made their appeal too exclusively to the Labour public.
We understand that every care will be taken that our contemporary
shall under no circumstances be a financial failure.
The Daily Nail is a bright little sheet, giving well-selected news,
popular "magazine" and "home" features, and, on the back page, a
number of pictures. It has a strong financial section, a well-informed
Society column, and a catholic and plentiful display of advertisements,
including announcements of many of those costly luxuries which
Labour to-day is able to afford.
While in its editorial comments it suggests emphatically that the
Government of the day is not and never can be satisfactory, it refrains
from embarrassing our statesmen with too many concrete proposals for
alternative methods.
We learn that the new Labour daily is substantially backed by a
nobleman of pronounced democratic ideals. From his Lordship down to
the humblest employee there exists among the staff a beautiful spirit of
fellowship unmarked by social distinction.
"Good morning, comrade," is the daily greeting of his Lordship to the
lift-boy, who replies with the same greeting, untarnished by servility.
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE NEW COALITION.
Mr. ASQUITH (_to Viscount CHAPLIN and Lord ROBERT CECIL_).
"THANKS, MY FRIENDS--THANKS FOR YOUR LOYAL
SUPPORT. DO MY EYES DECEIVE ME, OR DO I SEE BIG
BEN?"]

* * * * *
[Illustration: Son of House (_entertaining famous explorer and
distinguished professor_). "IT WOULD ASTONISH YOU FELLOWS
IF I TOLD YOU SOME OF THE THINGS I'VE SEEN AND
HEARD--THOUGH I'M, COMPARATIVELY SPEAKING, A
YOUNG MAN--TWENTY-TWO, TO BE EXACT."]
* * * * *
THE INSOMNIAC.
Miss Brown announced her intention of retiring to roost. Not that she
was likely to sleep a blink, she said; but she thought all early-Victorian
old ladies should act accordingly.
She asked Aunt Angela what she took for her insomnia. Aunt Angela
said she fed it exclusively on bromides. Edward said he gave his
veronal and SCHOPENHAUER, five grains of the former or a chapter
of the latter.
They prattled of the dietary and idiosyncrasies of their several
insomnias as though they had been so many exacting pet animals. Miss
Brown then asked me what I did for mine.
Edward spluttered merrily. "He rises with the nightingale, comes
bounding downstairs some time after tea and wants to know why
breakfast isn't ready. Only last week I heard him exhorting Harriet to
call him early next day as he was going to a dance."
They all looked reproachfully at me because I didn't keep a pet
insomnia too. I spoke up for myself. I admitted I hadn't got one, and
what was more was proud of it. All healthy massive thinkers are heavy
sleepers, I insisted. They must sleep heavily to recuperate the enormous
amount of vitality expended by them in their waking hours. Sleep, I
informed my audience, is Nature's reward to the blameless and
energetic liver. If they could not sleep now they were but paying for
past years of idleness and excess, and they had only themselves to

blame. I was going on to tell them that an easy conscience is the best
anodyne, etc., but they snatched up their candles and went to bed. I
went thither myself shortly afterwards.
I was awakened in the dead of night by a rapping at my door.
"Who's there?" I growled.
"I--Jane Brown," said a hollow voice.
"What's the matter?"
"Hush, there are men in the house."
"If they're burglars tell 'em the silver's in the sideboard."
"It's the police."
I sat up in bed. "The police!--why?--what?"
"Shissh! come quickly and don't make a noise," breathed Miss Brown.
I hurried into a shooting-jacket and slippers and joined the lady on the
landing. She carried a candle and was adequately if somewhat
grotesquely clad in a dressing-gown and an eider-down quilt secured
about her waist by a knotted bath-towel. On her head she wore a large
black hat. She put her finger to her lips and led the way downstairs. The
hall was empty.
"That's curious," said Miss Brown. "There were eighteen mounted
policemen in here just now. I was talking to the Inspector--such a nice
young man, an intimate friend of the late Sir CHRISTOPHER WREN,
who, he informs me privately, did not kill Cock Robin."
She paused, winked and then