out on foot for his
hotel. A brisk walk in the early morning air was the only pick-me-up
_he_ needed.

CHAPTER III

During their descent upon the Metropolis of England, Mr. Walkingshaw and
his son were residing at the Hotel Gigantique, that stately new pile in
Piccadilly, so styled, it is understood, from the bills presented when
you leave. On the morning after his evening spent with Charlie Munro,
they met as usual at breakfast. Fortunately, the state of Mr.
Walkingshaw's health did not in the least seem to justify the
forebodings of his friend. On the contrary, he tackled a fried sole with
confidence, even with ardor, and put a great deal of cream into his
coffee.

"What were you about last night?" he inquired genially.

"I dined with one or two fellows at the Rag," said Frank.

"Doesn't sound very lively," observed his father, "that's to say, at
your age," he hastened to add; for he still believed in retaining the
confidence of his children.

Frank smiled dreamily. This "bust" in town was proving less solacing
than he had hoped. Now that he had got here, he found himself too
lovelorn to bust with any relish. At the same time, it was pleasant and
soothing to enjoy each day the society of so charming a parent. Any
disquietude he felt at the singular nature of the change had been
allayed by one of his friends, an R.A.M.C. man, who assured him that a
serious illness at his father's time of life was not infrequently
followed by a marked rejuvenation of the patient; so that he was able to
regard with unqualified gratitude the generosity and kindness of the
truant Writer to the Signet.

"What were you doing yourself?" he inquired presently.

"Dining with Colonel Munro," replied his father, truthfully if a trifle
meagerly.

He sipped his coffee, and then remarked--

"Poor Charlie Munro is growing old, I'm afraid. He knocks up very
easily."

He sighed and added, "It's a melancholy thing, Frank, my boy, to see
one's old friends slipping away from one."

"What! Is he seriously ill?" asked Frank.

"Oh, I don't mean that. I mean--well, everything has its compensating
disadvantages. Mine is that my contemporaries are outgrowing me.
Charlie and I started the evening in capital style; he was up to
anything, and I was on for anything. But by the end of the night we were
quite out of sympathy. The fact is, he is still in the sixties. However,
my duty has been done; I've seen him, and that's over."

He help