January 16, 1886.] PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. 25

TIPS."

Menus, by a Weak-minded Man.

" Tips, Sir, are a nuisance to the giver, and a degradation to the
receiver! "

Much impressed hy this Johnsonian summing up of a much-
discussed question hy our Oracle, Buster, we there and then, in the

true Curtius-cum-
Cobden spirit of
Business Britons,
resolved ourselves
into an " Anti-Tip
League." Our
Badge—can't have
a League, or Army,
or Guild, without a
Badge nowadays—
was an open palm,
empty. Thiswrehad
stamped in brass,
and wore in our
"buttonholes. I
wonder whether
they all felt as proud
of it as I did. I
have made some
Mems. of my own
A Bit of a Stick with a Silver Tip. experience.

Monday.—Started

from home without my Badge. Had to go back for it. Consequently
nearly lost my 'Bus. Conductor, however, spotting my panting
form in the distance, stopped, and with the conventional " Now then,
Sir, look alive, please!" trotted back to give me a hand along.
" 'Appy Noo Year, .Sir! " says he, smirking. Glow of gratitude on
my part, and spontaneous approach of hand to breeches' pocket-
noted, approvingly, by Conductor. Suddenly remember ! Great shock.
Button up pocket, and sidle into 'Bus sheepishly, with a feeble
" Tha-a-nks, Bottleby ! " Bottleby stares, astonished, and bangs
door violently. Is heard exchanging confidences with his driver
over the knife-board. Feel certain they are not complimentary to
me. Never enjoyed ride to Town less.

Tuesday.—Everybody asking what that is—meaning my Badge.
Find myself explaining, in feeble whisper. Can't carry it off like
Buster, who glories in the whole thing. But Busier is masterful—
and mean. Most uncomfortable day. Breeches-pocket-action grown
automatic by long habit; necessity of cheeking it continually
troublesome, and leads to peculiar jerkiness in my gestures. As-
sorts of little difficulties turning up. Everybody at home uncom-
fortable, from my Wife to Buttons. New Medo-Persic Ultimatum.
"No Christmas-boxes!" doesn't appear to work well. Everybody
seems either tearful or out of temper—some both. My old clerk
Muten-s most miserable. Know why. Thinks he has offended me.
Long to double his usual "vail," but mustn't. Cutlet at lunch
cold, and boots badly blacked by my favourite boy. But, per contra,
I have satisfaction of knowing I am "discouraging a practice
degrading to the spirit of manly independence which should domi-
nate the breast of every Briton, from Premier to Policeman." (See
Buster's Letter to the Times.) Satisfaction hardly so satisfying as
I expected, though, and I fancy I am more discouraged than the
practice. I'm sure I feel move degraded than the disappointed
expectants of tips looh.

Wednesday.—Nephews, home from Eton, come to see me.
Awfully fond of boys, and generally get on capitally with them.
This time, however, a chill seems to have fallen over us. No larks,
no laughter ! Not even the usual snowball down my neck. Even
that would have been some comfort. Frank's face, when I explain
the Badge, a study. Tell him it is "the principle of the thine, don't
you know ? " Says, " Te-e-s ! " but doesn't seem to see it. Used to
call me "Ttp-oh "Sahib." Have dropped that practice. Overheard
Bertie telling Fraxk they ought to spell it "Tip-<nce," now.
W oundmg very. But with that Badge, what can I do—or say ? Boys
go early, leaving me miserable. Buster drops in, big and beaming,
bays the Badge has saved him an average of two-and-fourpence-
iarthmg an hour since he donned it. Chortles over it till I feel I
could punch him with pleasure. Go nearer to a quarrel with Buster
than ever before. Go to bed in beastly temper with myself, and
everybody else.

Thursday.—That Badge is becoming a burden and a bore. People
are beginning to understand what it means.' If I had Buster's
bumptiousness, I could brazen it out. But I haven't. When people
look at me pityingly, or scornfully, according to their view of the
case, I wince, thus losing dignity as well as comfort. Life is becom-
ing a dreary negation, consequent on the necessity of saying " No! "
every five minutes or so. I had no idea what an affliction travelling

can become—in the absence of "tips." Talk about the comforts of
civilisation! I should say—altering the Poet Laureate slightly—
Comfort! Comfort bom of—gratuities !

Pleasure, I am convinced, is a matter of pour-boire. Degrading, of
course, to our common—our very common! —humanity, but true.
Humanity feels it has a right to its appointed pay; it is the superero-
gatory and .the eleemosynary which make humanity obliging. Tell
Buster this. Buster snorts. Snorting is Buster's ultima ratio.
He says I am weak. I feel I would rather he weak—in his sense—
with a nice foot-warmer and somebody to awake me at my station,
than ever so strong, and uncomfortable, without. But the more that
Badge becomes known, the more I am shunned or ignored, and the
more I suffer.

Friday.—Leave the Badge at home—accidentally, of course. First
person I meet is Buster. He points at once to my buttonhole, and
snorts. Explain that I've left it behind, by mistake, and suggest—
slily—that he should lend me his. To my horror he does so at once,
saying that he always carries a spare one in his purse, in case of
accidents. There's principle, there's persistency ! But we are not
all Busters ! As soon as I have left him, put it in my purse. First
result _ 'Busman greets me with a pleasant smile. Pass a most
tantalising day, everyone beaming on me expectantly at first, and
then freezing into cold uncomfortableness on finding that nothing is
forthcoming. Have the satisfaction of snubbing a few of those ob-
trusive London touts who are always plaguing one with sham
services, for which they expect substantial returns. But this does
not make up for the number of real services which I am compelled
to accept, and ignore.

Saturday.—Send in my Badge and resignation as Member of the
"Anti-Tip League." Breathe freely again, and "tip" lavisnly
all round. Meet Buster, who passes me without speaking. Another
blessing! Get "on terms" with everyhody again like a shot.
Enjoy myself immensely. Decide that, though "tips" are often a
nuisance, and sometimes a degradation, yet in a world of hard and
often ill-paid work like ours, there are worse things. They ought to
be done away with, no doubt. So ought poverty, badly-requited
labour, unequally distributed wealth, pleasure-pinched destitution,
and swaggering selfishness. When these latter are abolished it will
be time enough to talk about abolishing " tips."

Mem.—I hear that Buster is the only remaining Member of the
"Anti-Tip League"!! !

THE BTJLE OP THE EOAD.

(Something about it, from a couple of last week's Diaries.)

Well, if this isn't enough to
make a Ratepayer savage, I should
like to know what is, that's all.
The state of the road is simply
disgraceful. Started this morn-
ing, to go to the office, and in ten
minutes after leaving home, ow-
ing to having to wade through a
drift, found myself soaked to my
knees. Home again and changed,
and started afresh, this time get-
ting hold of a four-wheeler with
two horses, that agreed to take
me for treble fare. Both horses
down several times, but drag on.
Stuck at last. Cabman says ho
can't go on any further. Get out
and find it freezing hard. Pick my
way carefully, but presently. slip
backwards and sprain my right
ancle badly. Luckily an omni-
bus comes by, sliding and stagger-
ing, and I limp in. We creep on
for some time, but at length come
to a dead halt. Both horses are
down and we all have to get out.
Driver says he's not going "to
have any more of this fun," and
is "going back." He does. I
limp on citywards as well as I can.
Got into another drift, and am
again soaked to my knees. Try
to walk quicker, and again slip
backwards, and this time sprain
my left ankle badly. Sit on a
frozen heap of snow, and am now
waiting for a policeman to help me
on to a stretcher.

So the neighbourhood's snowed
up, and we Westrymen has got to
see to it. Anythink else, I should
like to know! Why, what '11
they be expecting of us next ? To
take a broom and sweep it up our-
selves, I suppose ? Not if I know
it—no, nor hiring a lot of fellows
to do it neither. Snow is snow,
everybody knows that, and, of
course, if it comes down heavy, it
sticks—and, why shouldn't it
stick ? I asks. How can a Wes-
try be held responsible for that ?
Clear it away, indeed. "Who's to
clear it away ? Why, if it comes
to that, it will clear itself away.
Give it time enough, and it will
melt—any fool knows that. And
what are people to do in the
meantime ? Why, slush through
it as best they can. That's what
the busses have to do and the
cabs: and, for the matter of that,
if a four-wheeler can't get along
with two 'osses driving tandem,
well, all I can say is, it must stay
where it is. Oughtn't we Westry-
men to try to get the muck moved
away ? 'Ow ? Where's the carts
to do it P D'you think it's our
business to puzzle our 'eads over
a set out like this 'ere, because it
ill-conveniences a lot of chaps
going to the City and back ?
Why, what do you think a
Westryman is made for ? Not
for that, I can tell you.

vol. xc.

d