The other Saturday morning I met a friend at the Bedford Street Bodega. He said, "Laddie, doing anything to-night?" I said, "No; what's on?"
He said: "Like to help your old uncle?"
I said: "Stand on me."
"Well, it's a little charity show. A Social at Battersea Town Hall. Some local club or tennis-party or some jolly old thing of that sort. All receipts to the local hospital. All the gang are going to do something—kind of informal, you know. I'm the Star. Yes, laddie, I have at last a shop, for one night only. My fee—seven-and-sixpence and tram-fares. All other services gratuitous. No platform. No auditorium. Just a little old sit-round, drinking limp coffee and eating anæmic pastry, and listening. Come?"
I said I would, and we adventured along the dreary Wandsworth Road, down the evil-smelling Lavender Hill, into the strenuous endeavour of Clapham Junction. It was gay with lights and shoppers and parading monkeys. Above us hung a pallid, frosty sky. No stars; no moon; but down in the streets, warmth and cheer and companionship. We called at the blazing, bustling "Falcon," which is much more like a railway-junction than the station itself, and did ourselves a little bit of good, as my professional friend put it. Then we mounted to the gas-lit room where the fun was to take place. We wandered down long, stark passages, seeking our door. We heard voices, but we saw no door.
"Harold," said some one, "sometimes wish you wasn't quite such a fool."
"What's the matter now, Freddie?" asked A Voice.
"Why, you know very well it's ten to eight, and you ain't even pulled the piano out."
"Gaw! Lucky you reminded me. Come on, old chew-the-fat, give us a hand with the musical-box."
There were noises "off," from which it seemed that some one had put something on top of something else. There were noises of some one hitting a piece of wood with another piece of wood.