this
bank, not far away. The banker called him up and whispered strangely
over the phone. We were asked to take off our hat. Apparently our friend
was describing us. We hoped that he was saying "stout" rather than
"fat." But it seemed that the corroboration of our friend only
increased our host's precaution. Perhaps he thought it was a carefully
worked-out con game, in which our friend was a confederate. We signed
our name several times, on little cards, with a desperate attempt to
appear unconcerned. In spite of our best efforts, we could not help
thinking that each time we wrote it we must be looking as though we were
trying to remember how we had written it the last time. Still the banker
hesitated. Then he called up our friend again. He asked him if he would
know our voice over the phone. Our friend said he would. We spoke to our
friend, with whom we had eaten lunch a few minutes before. He asked, to
identify us, what we had had for lunch. Horrible instant! For a moment
we could not remember. The eyes of the banker and his assistant were
glittering upon us. Then we spoke glibly enough. "An oyster patty," we
said; "two cups of tea, and a rice pudding which we asked for cold, but
which was given us hot."

Our friend asserted, to the banker, that we were undeniably us, and
indeed the homely particularity of the luncheon items had already made
incision in his hardened bosom. He smiled radiantly at us and gave us a
cheque book. Then he told us we couldn't draw against our account until
the original cheque had passed through the Clearing House, and sent a
youth back to the office with us so that we could be unmistakably
identified.

As we left the banker's office someone else was ushered in. "Here's
another gentleman to open an account," said the assistant. "We hope he
knows what he had for lunch," we said to the banker.

ON VISITING BOOKSHOPS

[Illustration]

It Is a curious thing that so many people only go into a bookshop when
they happen to need some particular book. Do they never drop in for a
little innocent carouse and refreshment? There are some knightly souls
who even go so far as to make their visits to bookshops a kind of
chivalrous errantry at large. They go in not because they need any
certain volume, but because they feel that there may be some book that
needs them. Some wistful, little forgotten sheaf of loveliness, long
pining away on an upper shelf--why not ride up, fling her across your
ch