disappeared, wrinkled his sharp short nose, and, so far as a recumbent person may, struck an attitude.
"Kissin' Cups Last Rice," he ejaculated, and then in a falsetto, mincing voice continued:—
"You'd hask of the great rice, Sir,
When Kissin' Cup saved our 'Ouse?
As I stood in the Grand Stand that day, Sir,
I felt like a bloomin' l—no—mouse!"
"Wath its name 'Kiththing Cup'?" inquired the Vice.
"It were not," replied Bobball, "that spasim of po'try were what is called a proluminary canter. No—its nyme were Bill, an' a nice Christian sort of nyme too. Kissin Cup! 'Nough to make an 'oss feel faint. . . .
"’Ow I loved that oss, Bill! And ’ow Bill loved me! Wotsmore, Bill could unnerstand every word wot I said to 'im—an' when 'e was agoin' to run in a rice as the Capting wanted 'im to win, I allus 'ad to go to 'is stall, put my arms around 'is bloomin' neck an' say, 'Bill, I've backed yer 'eavy! You carries my little all,'
