I somehow associate Tag with whisky and water; not that he took it
much or often, but he gave one the impression that whatever others
might do when amongst the benighted foreigner, he, for one, would not
let a good old English custom drop into disuse. Looking at Tag one
intuitively felt that his father before him had taken his moderate
glass of W. and W., and that, if he married and had sons, they would
do likewise. I do not think that he was particularly fond of art
or artists, unless inasmuch as they were brother Bohemians. He was
engaged, or, at least, he was generally just about to be engaged, in
some business, and whilst waiting for the opportune moment to commence
operations, he would settle down to an expectant present. The golden
opportunity he was looking for was plainly visible on his horizon, but
it had a way of remaining stationary, and as it was contrary to Tag's
nature to move unless under great pressure, the two never met.

In the meanwhile Tag was one of our trio of chums; he was a good deal
with us when we were out and about, bent on storming the world, or
climbing Parnassus; we did the climbing, he the looking on, the parts
thus being distributed to our mutual satisfaction. He was always
pleasantly acquiescent, and had the rare gift of making himself
useless agreeably; a common bond of interest we had in the Colorado
claro and oscuro, whether the fair or dark, applied to the friendly
weed or the still more friendly fair sex.

He describes himself pretty correctly in a letter he wrote to us from
Paris, when he says:--

"Since my arrival here my notes of what I have to do represent
what I have not done, and if it be true that the infernal