currently
acceptable rubbish or other, abandoned Ewart, evaded Marion instead of
pursuing her, concentrated. But I don't believe it!

However, I certainly believed it completely and was filled with remorse
on that afternoon when I sat dejectedly in Kensington Gardens and
reviewed, in the light of the Registrar's pertinent questions my first
two years in London.

CHAPTER THE SECOND

THE DAWN COMES, AND MY UNCLE APPEARS IN A NEW SILK HAT

I

Throughout my student days I had not seen my uncle. I refrained from
going to him in spite of an occasional regret that in this way I
estranged myself from my aunt Susan, and I maintained a sulky attitude
of mind towards him. And I don't think that once in all that time I gave
a thought to that mystic word of his that was to alter all the world
for us. Yet I had not altogether forgotten it. It was with a touch of
memory, dim transient perplexity if no more--why did this thing seem in
some way personal?--that I read a new inscription upon the hoardings:

THE SECRET OF VIGOUR,
TONO-BUNGAY.

That was all. It was simple and yet in some way arresting. I found
myself repeating the word after I had passed; it roused one's attention
like the sound of distant guns. "Tono"--what's that? and deep, rich,
unhurrying;--"BUN--gay!"

Then came my uncle's amazing telegram, his answer to my hostile
note: "Come to me at once you are wanted three hundred a year certain
tono-bungay."

"By Jove!" I cried, "of course!

"It's something--. A patent-medicine! I wonder what he wants with me."

In his Napoleonic way my uncle had omitted to give an address. His
telegram had been handed in at Farringdon Road, and after complex
meditations I replied to Ponderevo, Farringdon Road, trusting to the
rarity of our surname to reach him.

"Where are you?" I asked.

His reply came promptly:

"192A, Raggett Street, E.C."

The next day I took an unsanctioned holiday after the morning's lecture.
I discovered my uncle in a wonderfully new silk hat--oh, a splendid
hat! with a rolling brim that went beyond the common fashion. It was
decidedly too big for him--that was its only fault. It was stuck on the
back of his head, and he was in a white waistcoat and shirt sleeves.
He welcomed me with a forgetfulness of my bitter satire and my hostile
abstinence that was almost divine. His glasses fell off at the sight of
me. His round inexpressive eyes shone brightly. He held out his plump
short hand.