my suit, and, as I was something of a dandy at the time, I
affected certain airs as to the arrangement of my watch-chain and
the like. I came out cleanshaven and with an eye-glass, and generally
looking as different from the man who went in as it was possible to
imagine. On the stairs I found my waiter ready, and when he saw me he
said most emphatically that _he was_ ----. He took me to the coffee
room, where I had a meal. He stood behind my chair, and by means of a
mirror opposite I _saw_ him keep saying to himself that _he was_ ----.
I stayed in Hereford for some time, both to rest and to write articles
about my experiences, which appeared in _Mayfair_, a society paper, long
since dead. I took a private room, and this particular waiter seemed to
be told off to attend me in all my doings. Everything seemed to surprise
him; he could not measure me up at all, and he was continually saying
that _he was_ ----, although I knew quite well that he wasn't. One day
his worship the Mayor of Hereford called to see me. When I asked the
waiter to show his worship up he said that _he was_ ----. The mayor was
a flamboyant sort of individual, and said, "Now, Mr Christie Murray,
Lord Lyttelton is in Hereford, and is most par-tic-ular-ly interested in
the subject of which you are treating in _Mayfair_. He will be delighted
to meet you, and I have arranged with his lordship that you shall meet
him at my house (the mayor's house) at 7.30 on Friday. You will not fail
his lordship?" I said that I would not for the world, and I escorted his
worship to his carriage. At the door he turned and said, "Half-past
seven on Friday, Mr Christie Murray, at my house, to meet Lord
Lyttelton. Profoundly disappointed if you don't turn out. His lordship
will be grieved, Mr Murray." The mayor having gone I turned round--to
encounter my waiter, and for the last time he said that _he was_ ----.
And although I had known that he was not, he said it with such sincerity
that I more than half believed him.

Either the man must beg, which in itself is, of course, a misdemeanour,
or he must starve. To sleep out of doors is a crime, and for a man to
appeal for shelter at the workhouse means that he will be detained until
every chance of obtaining employment is lost. I remember an unfortunate
fellow, whom I overtook near Tewkesbury, a man of about sixty as I
should judge, who was sitting by the roadside cooling his blistered
heels in a little runnel of clear water, an