"Just you come down," said the constable, in his severest and most judicial tones.
The Lord Mayor prepared to climb down, looking somewhat crestfallen, whilst the unsympathetic crowd uttered a faint, ironical cheer.
"This is the second time to-night I have spoken to you," said the constable. "Now, as you have been behaving most strangely and attracting a crowd, I'll just trouble you for your name and address," and the constable unfolded an uncomfortable-looking pocket-book, bound in an ominous-looking black case, produced the stump of a pencil and prepared to take notes. "Now then, out with it, what's your name?"
"Gold," faltered the Lord Mayor, fumbling vainly for a visiting card, which he was unable to find.
The stolid constable misunderstood the action. "No, you don't bribe me," said the constable loftily.
"I was not attempting to," objected the Lord Mayor.
"Well, what's your name, then?"
"Gold," repeated the Lord Mayor.
"Oh, I see," muttered the constable; "what else?"
"Simon Gold."