evening this
Bishop had to preach a sermon at St. Paul's Cathedral. The occasion was
a very special and important one, and every God-fearing newspaper in the
kingdom sent its own special representative to report the proceedings.

Now, of the three reporters thus commissioned, one was a man of
appearance so eminently respectable that no one would have thought of
taking him for a journalist. People used to put him down for a County
Councillor or an Archdeacon at the very least. As a matter of fact,
however, he was a sinful man, with a passion for gin. He lived at Bow,
and, on the Sabbath in question, he left his home at five o'clock in the
afternoon, and started to walk to the scene of his labours. The road
from Bow to the City on a wet and chilly Sunday evening is a cheerless
one; who can blame him if on his way he stopped once or twice to comfort
himself with "two" of his favourite beverage? On reaching St. Paul's he
found he had twenty minutes to spare--just time enough for one final
"nip." Half way down a narrow court leading out of the Churchyard he
found a quiet little hostelry, and, entering the private bar, whispered
insinuatingly across the counter:

"Two of gin hot, if you please, my dear."

His voice had the self-satisfied meekness of the successful ecclesiastic,
his bearing suggested rectitude tempered by desire to avoid observation.
The barmaid, impressed by his manner and appearance, drew the attention
of the landlord to him. The landlord covertly took stock of so much of
him as could be seen between his buttoned-up coat and his drawn-down hat,
and wondered how so bland and innocent-looking a gentleman came to know
of gin.

A landlord's duty, however, is not to wonder, but to serve. The gin was
given to the man, and the man drank it. He liked it. It was good gin:
he was a connoisseur, and he knew. Indeed, so good did it seem to him
that he felt it would be a waste of opportunity not to have another
twopen'orth. Therefore he had a second "go"; maybe a third. Then he
returned to the Cathedral, and sat himself down with his notebook on his
knee and waited.

As the service proceeded there stole over him that spirit of indifference
to all earthly surroundings that religion and drink are alone able to
bestow. He heard the good Bishop's text and wrote it down. Then he
heard the Bishop's "sixthly and lastly," and took that down, and looked
at his notebook and wondered in a peaceful way what had