“I know him. He was at Lovaina’s,” I interposed. “He was at the bar all the time, quoting Pope and Dryden and himself. He said he was going around the globe on a wager of a fortune. He was a poisonous bore, and always popped up for a drink. By the way, he wears a monocle.”
“You’ve named him,” went on the consul. “That’s more of the cockney’s pretense. Here’s the poem he wrote in the calaboose. He did it on his shirt-front because the economical French gave him no paper. Lontane thought it might be his will or a plot, and brought the shirt here, and I copied the accursed thing for my record, as I am compelled to by the rules of the august devils of Downing Street.”
THE HOME-LAND CALL
Why wilt thou torture me with unripe call,
Bringing these visions of the dear old land?
Dost think ’t is sweet to let thy mock’ry fall?
For me to hear forgotten noises in the Strand?
Insidious voice that will not grant my plea,
The mem’ry of thy pleasures dost remain:
Oxonian-Cantabs club; blue-lit Gaiety!’