ed, and the East End was in
excitement. Mr. Gladstone had consented to be present at the ceremony of
unveiling the portrait of Arthur Constant, presented by an unknown donor
to the Bow Break o' Day Club, and it was to be a great function. The
whole affair was outside the lines of party politics, so that even
Conservatives and Socialists considered themselves justified in
pestering the committee for tickets. To say nothing of ladies. As the
committee desired to be present themselves, nine-tenths of the
applications for admission had to be refused, as is usual on these
occasions. The committee agreed among themselves to exclude the fair sex
altogether as the only way of disposing of their womankind who were
making speeches as long as Mr. Gladstone's. Each committeeman told his
sisters, female cousins and aunts that the other committeemen had
insisted on divesting the function of all grace; and what could a man do
when he was in a minority of one?

Crowl, who was not a member of the Break o' Day Club, was particularly
anxious to hear the great orator whom he despised; fortunately Mortlake
remembered the cobbler's anxiety to hear himself, and on the eve of the
ceremony sent him a ticket. Crowl was in the first flush of possession
when Denzil Cantercot returned, after a sudden and unannounced absence
of three days. His clothes were muddy and tattered, his cocked hat was
deformed, his cavalier beard was matted, and his eyes were bloodshot.
The cobbler nearly dropped the ticket at the sight of him. "Hullo,
Cantercot!" he gasped. "Why, where have you been all these days?"

"Terribly busy!" said Denzil. "Here, give me a glass of water. I'm dry
as the Sahara."

Crowl ran inside and got the water, trying hard not to inform Mrs. Crowl
of their lodger's return. "Mother" had expressed herself freely on the
subject of the poet during his absence, and not in terms which would
have commended themselves to the poet's fastidious literary sense.
Indeed, she did not hesitate to call him a sponger and a low swindler,
who had run away to avoid paying the piper. Her fool of a husband might
be quite sure he would never set eyes on the scoundrel again. However,
Mrs. Crowl was wrong. Here was Denzil back again. And yet Mr. Crowl felt
no sense of victory. He had no desire to crow over his partner and to
utter that "See! didn't I tell you so?" which is a greater consolation
than religion in most of the misfortunes of life. Unfortunately, to get