"Not the man!' said the gentleman with the camp-stool in his hand.

"Certainly not,' replied the little Doctor. 'That's not the person who insulted me last night.'

"Very extraordinary!' exclaimed the officer. "Very,' said the gentleman with the campstool.

...

"Now Mr. Winkle had opened his eyes. . . . 'I am not the person. I know it.'

"Then, that,' said the man with the campstool, 'is an affront to Doctor Slammer, and a sufficient reason for proceeding immediately.'

"Pray be quiet, Payne,' said the Doctor's second. 'Why did you not communicate this fact to me, this morning, Sir?'

"To be sure to be sure,' said the man with the camp-stool, indignantly.

"I entreat you to be quiet, Payne,' said the other. 'May I repeat my question, Sir?'

"Because, Sir,' replied Mr. Winkle, who had had time to deliberate upon his answer 'because, Sir, you described an intoxicated and ungentlemanly person as wearing a coat, which I have the honour, not only to wear, but to have invented the proposed uniform, Sir, of the Pickwick Club in London. The honour of that uniform I feel bound to maintain, and I

therefore, without inquiry, accepted the challenge which you offered me.'

"My dear Sir,' said the good-humoured little Doctor, advancing with extended hand, 'I honour your gallantry.'

"I beg you won't mention it, Sir,' said Mr. Winkle.

"I shall feel proud of your acquaintance, Sir,' said the little Doctor."

At which everybody returned to the Inn where the night was spent in unlimited libations.

My work at The Bull finished, I set out the next afternoon to find The Leather Bottle at Cobham, following the road taken by Mr. Pickwick, Mr. Winkle, and Mr. Snodgrass when they went in search of Mr. Tracy Tupman, who having been deserted by a lovely and fascinating creature - a victim to the artifices of a villain had retired to this commodious village ale-house, there to rest his heavy load of worldly cares and troubles, and where on my arrival I was ushered into the very room in which Mr. Pickwick had found the heartbroken lover assuaging his grief.

Rather a forlorn, cobwebby kind of a room, I must say, its walls covered with portraits,

photographs, personal souvenirs of the novelist, advertisements of his readings, newspaper clippings descriptive of his death and funeral services, each and every one of them elaborated in a fog-horn voice which broke loose from the top of a tall man who said he was the original landlord a voice which could have been heard, and doubtless was, a mile away, in Rochester.

After listening to it for half an hour I paid my bill through a hole in a pine board, shutting off the tap-room from the dusty, level-with-thedirt-road passageway, and walked back to The Bull a wiser and sadder man. One eats an olive to get the taste of a poor wine out of the mouth and thus prepare his palate for better things. I have no grudge against The Leather Bottle. The mug of bass was of the proper quality and temperature and the mug itself was clean. I could have wished that the landlord had had mumps, or quinsy sore throat, or a well-developed case of bronchitis, and I would have been glad had the Coney Island atmosphere permeating the place been allowed to escape out of the open window, taking most of the gimcracks along with it: or perhaps Mr. Tupman's love-affair did not interest me as much as did Mr. Jingle's. One thing is certain, how

ever, the olive of The Bull at Rochester re moved the taste of the contents of The Leather Bottle.

That same day I drove to Gad's Hill, some two miles away.

My experiences were not tempestuously pleasant. I went through the same formula used on Doughty Street, which has never failed me the world over when on similar errands, giving the smart-looking young maid who opened the door a condensed account of my blameless life, family history, and present lofty purpose, ending with the presentation of an immaculate white card, typical of the purity of my motive none of which, I regret to say,

produced the slightest effect.

Perhaps it was the slant of my slouch-hat which caused her to hesitate, the card balanced on her palm; perhaps it might have been my smudgy fingers-I had been at work that morning. Or perhaps her hesitation was due to the peculiar cut of my knickerbockers and the accumulated dust on my shoes; but certain it was that only a very decided voice from inside the library door, wanting to know what it was "all about," finally set her feet in motion. "Wants to see me? What for?"