That evening my friend Halfred appeared, bringing a testimonial to his honesty and sobriety from the proprietor of the stables, and a brief line of eulogy from the official who collected the pence and supplied the tickets upon his own “bus. This last certificate ran thus—I give it exactly as it stood:
“certtifieing alfred Winkes is I of The best obligging and You will find him kind to animils yours Sinseerly P. Widdup.”
As Halfred explained to me, this was entirely unsolicited, and Mr. Widdup, he was sure, would feel hurt if he learned that it had not been presented.
“You can tell him,” I said, “that it has secured the situation for you.”
I had just told him that I should expect him to begin his duties upon the following morning, and he was inspecting my apartment with an air of great interest and satisfaction, when there came a knock upon the door, and in walked Sir. Teddy Lumme himself. He was in evening-dress, covered by the most recent design in top-coats and the most spotless of white scarfs. On his head he wore a large opera-hat, tilted at the same angle, and on his feet small and shiny boots.
“Hullo,” said he. “Sorry; am I interrupting? Came to see if you'd booked Mingle. I suppose you have.'”
“A thousand thanks, my friend, for your trouble.”
I replied, with an earnestness proportionate to my feeling of compunction. “Mingle was, indeed, admirable—exquisite. In fact, he was perfect in every respect save one.”
“What's that?” said Teddy, looking a little surprised.
“He could not drive an omnibus.”