zed beneath the perspiration, features which, though
they were distorted, were nevertheless those of one whom he respected
as a leading citizen.

'Why, Mr Meggs!' he said.

This identification by one in authority calmed, if it a little
disappointed, the crowd. What it was they did not know, but, it was
apparently not a murder, and they began to drift off.

'Why don't you give Mr Meggs his letters when he asks you, ma'am?' said
the constable.

Miss Pillenger drew herself up haughtily.

'Here are your letters, Mr Meggs, I hope we shall never meet again.'

Mr Meggs nodded. That was his view, too.

All things work together for good. The following morning Mr Meggs awoke
from a dreamless sleep with a feeling that some curious change had
taken place in him. He was abominably stiff, and to move his limbs was
pain, but down in the centre of his being there was a novel sensation
of lightness. He could have declared that he was happy.

Wincing, he dragged himself out of bed and limped to the window. He
threw it open. It was a perfect morning. A cool breeze smote his face,
bringing with it pleasant scents and the soothing sound of God's
creatures beginning a new day.

An astounding thought struck him.

'Why, I feel well!'

Then another.

'It must be the exercise I took yesterday. By George, I'll do it
regularly.'

He drank in the air luxuriously. Inside him, the wild-cat gave him a
sudden claw, but it was a half-hearted effort, the effort of one who
knows that he is beaten. Mr Meggs was so absorbed in his thoughts that
he did not even notice it.

'London,' he was saying to himself. 'One of these physical culture
places.... Comparatively young man.... Put myself in their hands....
Mild, regular exercise....'

He limped to the bathroom.

THE MAN WITH TWO LEFT FEET

Students of the folk-lore of the United States of America are no doubt
familiar with the quaint old story of Clarence MacFadden. Clarence
MacFadden, it seems, was 'wishful to dance, but his feet wasn't gaited
that way. So he sought a professor and asked him his price, and said he
was willing to pay. The professor' (the legend goes on) 'looked down
with alarm at his feet and marked their enormous expanse; and he tacked
on a five to his regular price for teaching MacFadden to dance.'

I have often been struck by the close similarity between the case of
Clarence and that of Henry Wallace Mills. One difference alone presents
itself. It would se