"What else?" pursued the remorseless officer of the law.
"Sir Simon Gold," groaned the helpless Lord Mayor.
"What address?"
"The Mansion House."
"Here, I don't want none of your jokes," vouchsafed the constable sternly; "this is no joking matter, as you will find out when you're charged afore the magistrate."
The worthy Sir Simon's plump cheeks flushed red with anger at the bare mention of such an indignity. "How dare you suggest such a thing to me?" spluttered Sir Simon. "Do you know who I am? I am the Lord Mayor of London."
This remark was greeted with a loud cheer from the rapidly gathering crowd.
The constable smiled a maddening smile.
"A likely tale," observed the constable. "Why, I was present keeping the crowd off when his Worship, the Lord Mayor of London, opened his Home to-day; he returned hours ago; and I think myself it's some sort of Home as you have got to return to, and I don't leave you until I find out which Home it is."
Whether the mention of the word Home suggested sudden possibilities to the Writer, or whether, like Ulysses of old, he longed so ardently for a return to that blissful abode that he even stooped to emulate the sort of stratagem Ulysses might have adopted in similar circumstances will never be known. Yet the fact remains that the Writer turned the fortunes of war for the time being.