injured child of nature.

As it was, I went back to London the very next day, determined to renew
my slight acquaintance with Reggie Nettlecraft.

Fortunately, I had a good excuse for going to visit him. I had been
asked to collect among old Carthusians for one of those endless
"testimonials" which pursue one through life, and are, perhaps, the
worst Nemesis which follows the crime of having wasted one's youth at
a public school: a testimonial for a retiring master, or professional
cricketer, or washerwoman, or something; and in the course of my
duties as collector it was quite natural that I should call upon all my
fellow-victims. So I went to his rooms in Staples Inn and reintroduced
myself.

Reggie Nettlecraft had grown up into an unwholesome, spotty,
indeterminate young man, with a speckled necktie, and cuffs of which he
was inordinately proud, and which he insisted on "flashing" every second
minute. He was also evidently self-satisfied; which was odd, for I have
seldom seen anyone who afforded less cause for rational satisfaction.
"Hullo," he said, when I told him my name. "So it's you, is it,
Cumberledge?" He glanced at my card. "St. Nathaniel's Hospital! What
rot! Why, blow me tight if you haven't turned sawbones!"

"That is my profession," I answered, unashamed. "And you?"

"Oh, I don't have any luck, you know, old man. They turned me out
of Oxford because I had too much sense of humour for the authorities
there--beastly set of old fogeys! Objected to my 'chucking' oyster
shells at the tutors' windows--good old English custom, fast becoming