ances.

"Punctual as usual," said Hawkesbury, as I approached. "Phil, this is
my friend Batchelor I was telling you of."

I wished secretly I knew exactly what he had been telling him of me.

"Oh," said Masham, eyeing me all over, as he lit a cigar, and then held
out his cigar-case to me. "What do you smoke, Batchelor?"

"I don't smoke, thank you," said I.

"Have you given it up, then?" said Hawkesbury. "You used to smoke at
Doubleday's parties."

"Ah! I thought he looked like a chap that smoked," said Masham, holding
out his case again. "Don't be modest, Batchelor. We're all friends
here."

I didn't like the style of this Masham. Indeed, I was a trifle afraid
of him already, and half repented coming.

"I gave up smoking some weeks ago," said I, determined not to give in if
I could help. "I found I couldn't afford it."

"The very reason you should take a cigar now when you've a chance of
getting one for nothing," replied Masham, digging me pleasantly in the
ribs.

"Thanks, I'd rather not, if you'll excuse me," I replied again.

"Can't excuse you, my dear fellow. We're all bound to be sociable to-
day. At least, so I fancy."

"Come, Batchelor," said Hawkesbury. "We may as well humour him. I'd
advise you to take a cigar. I'll take one, too, to keep you company,
though I hate them. They always make me feel sick."

So saying, he took a cigar and lit it. I felt bound to do the same, not
only to relieve myself of Masham's importunity, but to avoid disturbing
the harmony of our party at the very beginning of the day.

At this moment Whipcord arrived on the scene, as stylish as ever, with
his hat all on one side of his head and his straw all on one side of his
mouth.

"What cheer, my venerable chums?" he cried, as he approached. "Ah!
Masham. You turned up again! I thought we'd lost--"

"That'll do," said Masham, with a significant jerk of his head towards
me. "Have a weed?"

"Thanks, we'll see about that later on. I'm off my smoke just now. Ah!
young Batchelor, you there? Brought your boxing-gloves with you, I
hope? Hot fellow with the gloves is Batchelor, Phil. Well, where's
your trap, Hawkesbury?"

"There it is coming out."

Whipcord eyed it professionally and critically. He liked the dogcart,
but didn't think much of the horse.

"Do all right for a water-cart, I dare say," observed he, "or cat's
meat. But I don't see how we're to get to Windsor and back with such a
rheumat