Charlie Witdoats. 67 



So saying, Mister Charles springs out of bed, and 

 splashes into his bath, without any more delay. 



At the end of half an hour — for, of course, it is out of 

 the question for such a heavy swell to dress in ten 

 minutes — the lazy one clanks downstairs. " Yes, it's a 

 cold morning — very — and a glass of Curasao won't be 

 amiss. Yes, just a drop of brandy in it, Robert. That'll 

 do. Wiggins, where the doose are my mittens ? Oh, 

 all right, here they are." And at last the gay sportsman 

 gets on his impatient hack, but he's not off yet. '^ Stop ! " 

 he cries ; " I've left my fusee-box upstairs ; just go and 

 get it, will you, one of you. Thankee ! " 



And now, with a " Cut along, old girl," to his hack, 

 away goes young Nimrod at a hand gallop, to the great 

 relief of the servants, who want to be off to a bicycle 

 match that has been arranged to come off that morning, 

 whilst the family are away at the hunt, between one of 

 the footmen and the simple carpenter of the village, the 

 lacquey in question having ventured a quarter's wages on 

 the result. 



Charlie Wildoats, the subject of our sketch, is one of 

 those happy-go-lucky erratic young gentlemen one so 

 often meets. He never seems to know his own mind two 

 minutes together. Punctuality, it is needless to say, is a 

 virtue utterly unknown to him ; indeed, his uncle and 

 guardian, whose heir he is, and with whom he is supposed 

 to live when he is at home, goes the length of saying, " I 

 really believe, I do really believe, that Charlie will be too 

 late for his own funeral, begad ! One never knows 

 where to find him." One day one meets him at Rome, 

 throwing confetti at his friends from a balcony in the 

 Corso. Next week he is flourishing in the Vale of 



F— 2 



