by a series of piercing shrieks.

The door again opened. Mr. Maundrell, the real chairman of the evening,
stood on the threshold. "Chair!" was now the word that arose on every
side, and at this signal the Druids disappeared at a trot past the
long-bearded, impassive Mr. Maundrell. Their victim followed them, but
before he did so he picked up his trousers which were lying on the
carpet.

All the time this scene had been going on, I fancied I recognised the
man in the chair. In a flash I remembered. It was Dawkins who had
coached First Trinity, and whom I, as a visitor once at the crew's
training dinner, had last seen going through the ancient and honourable
process of de-bagging at the hands of his light-hearted boat.

"Come on," said Malim. "Godfrey Lane's going to sing a patriotic song.
They _will_ let him do it. We'll go down to the Temple and find
John Hatton."

We left the Barrel at about one o'clock. It was a typical London late
autumn night. Quiet with the peace of a humming top; warm with the heat
generated from mellow asphalt and resinous wood-paving.

We turned from Bedford Street eastwards along the Strand.

Between one and two the Strand is as empty as it ever is. It is given
over to lurchers and policemen. Fleet Street reproduces for this one
hour the Sahara.

"When I knock at the Temple gate late at night," said Malim, "and am