It all happened so naturally, so inevitably, yet so tragically—like a Greek play, as Willoughby said afterwards.

Willoughby is my younger brother, and in his lighter moments is a Don at Oxford or Cambridge; it will be safer not to specify which. In his younger and more serious days he used to play the banjo quite passably, and, when the Hicksons asked us to dine, they insisted that he should bring his instrument and help to make music to which the young people might dance, for it seems that this instrument is peculiarly suited to the kind of dancing now in vogue. Willoughby had not played upon the banjo for fifteen years, but he unearthed it from the attic, restrung it, and in the event did better than might have been expected.

Anyhow, he did not succeed in spoiling the evening, which I consider went well, despite the severe trial, to one of my proportions, of having to perform, soon after dinner, a number of scenes “to rhyme with hat.” Indeed, when I was finally pushed alone on to the stage, any chagrin I might have felt at the ease with which the audience guessed at once that I represented “fat” was swallowed up in the relief at being allowed to rest awhile, for “fat” proved to be correct.

It is not of dumb-crambo, however, nor of hunt-the-slipper (a dreadful game), nor of “bump” (a worse game) that I wish to speak, but of that which befell after.

It was a very wet night, and when the hour for our departure arrived there arose some uncertainty as to whether we could find a taxi willing to take us home.

“I will interview the porter,” said Willoughby (the Hicksons live in a flat), and he disappeared, to return in a few minutes with something of the air of a conspirator.

“Get your coat on,” he said curtly.

“Have you a taxi?”

“No, I have a car. Get your coat on, and be quick about it.”

“A car?” I said. “What car? Whose car?”

Willoughby turned upon me. “If you prefer to walk, you can,” he said; “if not, get your coat on, as I say, and don’t ask stupid questions.”

I did not prefer to walk—would that I had!—but proceeded to bid my host and hostess Good-night. Even as I was doing so the porter came to the door.

“Hurry up, Sir,” he called to Willoughby in a stage whisper. “He can’t wait; he’s late already.”

As we followed him into the hall the porter went on whispering to Willoughby.

“Friend of mine. Always do me a turn. Going right to your square.” He continued to nod his head confidentially.

Willoughby turned to me.

“Got half-a-crown?” he grunted.

I had. The porter’s head-noddings redoubled.

Arrived at the door, we found a resplendent car, a chauffeur of the imperturbable order seated at the wheel.

“I’m very much obliged——,” Willoughby began.

“That’s all right, Sir,” said the man. “I’m going that way.”

We stepped in, drew the fur rug over our legs, and the car glided off.

“It’s a nice car,” said Willoughby.

“I understand that the chauffeur is a friend of the hall porter?” I commented.

“That is so.”

“And the owner of the car is——?”

“Some person unknown.”

“Where ignorance is bliss——”

“I am a little doubtful if the chauffeur will mention our ride to his master, if that is what you mean,” said Willoughby.

“Have you considered the bearing of the law concerning Conspiracy on this case?” I asked.

“I have not, nor do I intend to,” said Willoughby airily. “The law concerning Bribery and Corruption has a much more direct bearing. Got two more half-crowns?”

I was searching for them as we turned into the square in which we live and the car slowed down.

“Tell him it’s at the far corner,” I said.

And then suddenly a rasping voice sounded on the night air:—

“Here, Rodgers! Where are you off to? You’re very late, you know—very late.”

The car had stopped with a jerk before a house which was certainly not our house. A stream of light from the open door flooded the pavement. On the steps stood Percival, the man I had that row with about the Square garden. On the pavement, his hand outstretched to open the car door, was he of the rasping voice.

“This is the owner,” said Willoughby, and he laughed quietly to himself. He always giggles in a crisis. I could have kicked him. But at the moment I was hurriedly debating whether I could possibly escape by the door on the far side without being seen. “A small thin man might have done it,” I thought. But, alas! I am neither small nor thin.

Then the door of the car opened and Willoughby stepped forth into the limelight, as it were. During the evening the dumb-crambo and such had rather dishevelled his hair, and a wisp of it now appeared from beneath the brim of an elderly Homburg hat pushed on to the back of his head. Under his arm was the banjo. On his face was that maddeningly good-natured smile of his.

“What are you doing in my car?” demanded the rasping voice.

Willoughby did not answer for a moment, but simply stood there smiling.

Then he said, “Entirely my fault. Your chauffeur is in no way to blame. The fact is we couldn’t get a taxi, and my brother being rather delicate——”

“What, another?” barked the rasper.

There was nothing for it. Acutely conscious as I was how emphatically my countenance, flushed by the exertions of the evening, belied Willoughby’s description of “delicate,” it was impossible for me to remain in the car, and I stepped heavily out.

“It rhymes with hat,” said Willoughby softly.

As we slunk off down the Square, after as painful a five minutes as I care to remember, Willoughby kept repeating, “Very unlucky—very unlucky,” till we arrived at our own door. Then he began to laugh.

“And what is the joke?” I asked.

“There is no joke,” he said—“no joke at all.”

“Indeed there is not,” I said bitterly. “You must remember that, unlike yourself, I live here permanently.”

“I realise it,” said Willoughby. “But do you not think, on consideration, that that really gives you the advantage? I mean, you have thus the opportunity of living down the unfortunate accusation of inebriety that has been brought against us, which I shall not be in a position to do.”

I hate living things down.

Commercial Candour.

From a restaurant bill-of-fare:—

“Develled Leg of Foul and Curly Bacon, 2/6.”

“WORMWOOD SCRUBS’S ILL-HEALTH.

Released to Private Hospital.

Mr. Kelly, the Lord Mayor of Dublin, has released Wormwood Scrubs owing to his health.”—Australian Paper.

Some trouble in the cellular system, we gather.

Mr. James Sexton, M.P., who was howled down at a meeting at St. Helens recently, said he refused to bow the knee to a lot of body-snatchers who wanted him to sacrifice his manhood and conscience to satisfy their inclinations. A self-respecting sexton could do no less.