"My dear fellow," I began, "I can't possibly afford——"
"I don't want your money," interrupted Crawshaw.
"Well, you've got all my spare blankets, underclothing and old novels."
"I want you to come to a little dinner I'm giving on Monday. Just a bachelor festival."
I looked at him suspiciously. "You intend to entice me into your house and produce a subscription list."
"My dear fellow, I'll do nothing of the sort. It's just that I want a few of my friends to have a good time. Look in about 7.30. You'll come? That's good."
I found a genial company assembled when I arrived.
"Now we're all here," said Crawshaw. "Come in to dinner, you men."
Two or three guests confided to me on the way that Crawshaw owed us a good dinner after all he had got out of us. We seated ourselves at the table, and then I noticed an empty bowl in the middle. It bore this inscription, "Any one desiring to make a remark about the War will drop a shilling in for the Soldiers' Comforts Fund."
"My idea," said our smiling host. "We want a nice convivial dinner with an evening off from The Subject. We shall return to it to-morrow with fresh intelligence and enthusiasm after a brief relaxation."