Sir," (he mumbled), "as old friends of your dear uncle, and so on
and so forth, we are taking the first opportunity of making widdly
widdly wee.... Our Mr. Fred Pole will call upon you and place himself
widdly widdly wee--tum tiddly um tum.--Yours truly."

Mr. Tibbetts frowned at the letter and struck a bell with unnecessary
violence. There appeared in the doorway a wonderful man in scarlet
breeches and green zouave jacket. On his head was a dull red tarbosh,
on his feet scarlet slippers, and about his waist a sash of Oriental
audacity. His face, large and placid, was black, and, for all his
suggestiveness of the brilliant East, he was undoubtedly negroid.

The costume was one of Mr. Tibbetts's schemes. It was faithfully
copied from one worn by a gentleman of colour who serves the Turkish
coffee at the Wistaria Restaurant. It may be said that there was no
special reason why an ordinary business man should possess a bodyguard
at all, and less reason why he should affect one who had the appearance
of a burlesque Othello, but Mr. Augustus Tibbetts, though a business
man, was not ordinary.

"Bones"--for such a name he bore without protest in the limited circles
of his friendship--looked up severely.

"Ali," he demanded, "have you posted the ledger?"

"Sir," said Ali, with a profound obeisance, "the article was too
copious for insertion in aperture of collection box, so it was
transferred to the female lady behind postal department counter."

Bones leapt up, staring.

"Goodness gracious, Heavens alive, you silly old ass--you--you haven't
posted it--in the post?"

"Sir," said Ali reproachfully, "you instructed posting volume in exact
formula. Therefore I engulfed it in wrappings and ligatures of string,
and safely delivered it to posting authority."

Bones sank back in his chair.

"It's no use--no use, Ali," he said sadly, "my poor uncivilized savage,
it's not your fault. I shall never bring you up to date, my poor silly
old josser. When I say 'post' the ledger, I mean write down all the
money you've spent on cabs in the stamp book. Goodness gracious alive!
You can't run a business without system, Ali! Don't you know that, my
dear old image? How the dooce do you think the auditors are to know
how I spend my jolly old uncle's money if you don't write it down, hey?
Posting means writing. Good Heavens"--a horrid thought dawned on
him--"who did you post it to?"

"Lord," said Ali calmly, "destination of