a holiday,--but every one of them, individually and collectively,
intensely regretting the absence of Dr. MCSIMMUM. I hear the voice of
my friend Mr. CAPES in the passage. I will ask Mr. CAPES about this
celebrated Dr. MCSIMMUM, whom evidently I ought to know, at least by
repute. Perhaps I have known him by sight for years; perhaps he is a
man with whom I often dine at the Club, and who entertains us in the
smoking-room with strange stories of odd patients. His name I have
heard long ago. Was it MCSIMMUM? Not unlikely. Can't remember.

Mr. CAPES is energetically explaining and protesting to everybody.
Amid the hum and buzz of voices, I catch what he is saying. It is, "My
dear Sir, Dr. MCSIMMUM _is_ here. I've seen him. He dined alone. He
said he preferred it, as he had so much to do to-morrow." Then several
exclaim, "But _where_ is he _now_?"

"I don't know," replies the Proprietor. "Most likely, being tired,
he has gone to bed. I myself showed him to his room, No. 142, on his
arrival."

Heavens! The number of my room--is 142! Not another man in _there_!
No.... I see it all now, _I am Dr. MCSIMMUM!_ The real MCSIMMUM hasn't
arrived, and he hasn't sent a message. This accounts for my welcome,
and the absence of all difficulty in obtaining a room. But if he
arrives now! where shall _I_ be?

"What's that about MCSIMMUM?" says a jovial voice, coming right into
the midst of them.

To which inquiry responds a chorus, "He's here! Mr. CAPES says so, but
no one's seen him."