It was a bright Monday morning in September, and I was doing my usual patter dance in the dressing-room, striving to defeat the time-table—ten minutes for breakfast and five minutes to get to the station.

I dipped hurriedly into the collar-drawer, drew one forth, inverted it, cast a tie (Wadham Wanderers, E. team) into the parting and proceeded to secure the arrangement. The back stud operated without comment, but when I came to the front there seemed to be an inch or two of collar missing. At first I looked at it with mild surprise, then the horrible truth flashed through me.

I dashed into Joe's room.

"Look here," I exclaimed, "just look at my neck!"

Joe looked at it carefully for quite a minute.

"Yes," she remarked, "I think there is a tiny spot under the left ear. You've been drilling too much. You've been dressing too much to the left."

"No! No!" I shouted, tugging at the collar, "can't you see how swollen it is? It's that complaint you get from drinking chalky water. It's all your fault! I've told you hundreds of times to put a marble in the kettle."

Joe unfastened the collar, looked at it and laughed.

I snatched it back.

Inside there was a brief summary: "Alonzo. Fourfold. 14½."

I take 16.

"That," said Joe, pointing to Alonzo, "must be the extra collar they sent from the laundry last week."

It was. Alonzo was a gift—a donation. Sleek, youthful and unsullied, he came to us, bringing an air of tragedy into the home.

Three times during that week I tried to soil his glossy coat, and each time a golden minute was shorn from my breakfast. After that I put him in the sock drawer.

At the end of the first week I said to Joe, "Alonzo is bored, the society of half-hose does not interest him. Send him home."

He was sent, and my wardrobe settled itself peacefully.

On the following Monday I dipped into the collar drawer, went through the usual rites, and——No, it didn't really startle me. He had returned.

I put him in the sock drawer again.

Evidently he had plans of his own. One week at the laundry and one week at "Sunnyside," alternating, as it were, between taking the waters and a rest cure.

I began to respect Alonzo, but at the same time I felt he must be shown that there is such a thing as authority. I put him in a cardboard box, addressed it myself, posted it myself, and wrote to the manager myself. You think that settled him? You do not know Alonzo. He is made of sterner stuff than that.

At the end of the week he was back again, well and cheerful. Coming of a resourceful and determined race we tried other means—I forget how many—of outing him. Once the manager took him away in a taxi and once our Ann consigned him to the ash-pit.

It was no good. We had to give it up. We adopted him. As I write, Alonzo rests in his sock drawer, slightly fatigued but indomitable.