for
the fete, and labelled "Kitchener," "Bobs," "Cecil Rhodes," "Doctor
Jim," "Our Joe," and "Strathcona"--names (as he observed) altogether
more up to date than the "Black Prince," "Brown Bess," "Saladin," and
others they superseded.

Respect for his patron had further prompted Mr. Gavel, on the morning of
the fete, to don a furred overcoat, and to swear off drink for the day.
This abstinence, laudable in itself, disastrously affected his temper,
and brought him before noon into wordy conflict with his engineer.
The quarrel, suppressed for the time, flamed out afresh in the
afternoon, and, unfortunately, at a moment when Sir Elphinstone, as
chairman, was introducing the star orator from London. Opprobrious
words had reached the ears of the company gathered on the platform, and
Sir Elphinstone had interrupted his remarks about Bucking Up and
Thinking Imperially to send a policeman through the crowd with
instructions to stop that damned brawling.

If the great Napoleon may be forgiven for losing his temper when at five
in the afternoon from the slope of La Belle Alliance he watched the
Prussians breaking through the opposite woods, while Grouchy yet
tarried, let it be pleaded in excuse for Mr. Gavel that ever since
eleven a.m. he had been awaiting the arrival of his six newly-painted
horses. The Birmingham decorator had pledged himself to deliver them
early at Preston Bagot, and Mr. Gavel knew him for a man of his word.
He had made arrangements for their prompt conveyance to the field.
He did not doubt, but he was undeniably anxious.

Imagine, then, his feelings when at four o'clock or a little later a
wagon--the wagon of his hiring--rolled into the enclosure bringing one
horse only, and in place of the others a pile of tent-cloths and
theatrical boxes, on which sat and smiled Mr. and Mrs. Mortimer, his
professional rivals.

He had been drinking ginger-ale all day, and in copious draughts.
It must be confessed that he lost his temper woefully, and so
vociferously that Sir Elphinstone this time descended from the platform,
and strode across the meadow to demand what the devil he meant by it.
Nor was even this the last drop in the cup of Mr. Gavel's bitterness;
for the baronet, struck by Mr. Mortimer's appearance and genteel
address, at once invited him to set up his tent and save the situation
so desperately compromised.

Sam Bossom, perceiving that the wagon stood on ground well adapted for
pitching a tent, chee