CRIMPTON. Here is old BEILBY--he is hot
from the University Match. He begins to tell me all about it. JONES
was awfully well set, but that muff SMITH ran him out. BEILBY does
not believe it _was_ out. Odd the spite umpires always have at our
side. Feel that I must tear myself from BEILBY, the only man whose
conversation really interests me. Here is an English writer on
military subjects. I introduce him to the American General. Find he
is the Professor, after all. We get down-stairs somehow. BEILBY is
opposite me. CRIMPTON is next the Professor. The Military Writer is
next the General. Things do not appear to go very smoothly. It seems
that the Military one has said something about General BEAUREGARD
which he should not have said. The General is getting red. I hate it,
when men begin to talk about the American War. Any other war they
are welcome to: the Danish War, the war of 1866, the war of 1870, the
glorious affair of Majuba. But Americans are touchy about their war,
not easy to please them whatever you say. Much best to say nothing.
CRIMPTON is laughing at American novels. He does not know that the
Professor is an American novelist. What am I to do? I try to kick him
under the table. I kick the Mad Doctor, and apologise. Was feeling
about for a footstool. BEILBY is trying to talk about Base Ball to
the General, who is still red. Nothing is more disagreeable than these
international discussions at dinner.

Now, a clever host would know how to get out of this; he would start
some other subject. I can think of no other subject. Happy thought:
gradually glide into American cookery, clams, canvas-backed ducks,
what is that dish with a queer name--Jumbo? I don't feel as if it
were Jumbo. Squambo? Terapin soup? It sounds rather like the Hebrew
for a talisman, or an angel of some sort. However, they are talking
about cookery now, and wines. Is there not an American wine called
Catawampus? The Mad Doctor has his eye on me; he seems interested.
I thought I heard him murmur Aspasia, or Aphasia, or something
like that. It is not Catawampus--it is Catawba. I feel that I
_patauge_--flounder, I mean. I am getting quite nervous; feel like a
man in a powder-magazine, with lighted cigarettes everywhere. If one
can withdraw them to the smoking-room, they will settle down somehow.
They do. The Military Critic gets into a corner with BEILBY. The
Americans and I consort together. Most agreeable fellows; have been
everywhere, and seen ev