This was in 1880, and from that period up to the time of my resignation
from the staff of _Punch_ I certainly do not think that I have ever seen
Burnand's face assume such a threatening and offended expression as it
wore that day.

I was then twenty-six. Strange to say, Charles Keene and George du
Maurier were exactly the same age when they first made their _debut_ in
_Punch_, but not yet invited to "join the table."

As I was leaving my house one summer evening a few years afterwards, the
youngest member of my family, who was being personally conducted up to
bed by his nurse, enquired where I was going.

"To dine with Mr. Punch," I replied.

"Oh, haven't you eaten all his hump _yet_, papa? It _does_ last a long
time!" And the little chap continued his journey to the arms of
Morpheus, evidently quite concerned about his father's long-drawn-out
act of cannibalism.

The first feast to which I was bidden was not one of the ordinary or
office description, but a banquet given at the "Albion" Tavern, in the
City, on the 3rd of January, 1881, to celebrate the installation of Mr.
Burnand as the occupant of the editorial chair. And on my invitation
card I first sketched my new friends, the _Punch_ staff, and a few of
the outside contributors who were present, conspicuous among whom was
George Augustus Sala, the honoured stranger of the evening. That he
should be so struck me as peculiar, for it was an open secret that Sala
wrote and illustrated that famous attack (nominally by Alfred Bunn), "A
Word with _Punch_," a most vulgar, vicious, and personal insult which
had given much offence years before; a clear proof of Mr. Punch's
forgiving nature. That grand old man of _Punch_, Tenniel, I made an
attempt to sketch as he was "saying a few words," but on this particular
occasion it was my _vis-a-vis_ Charles Keene who interested me more than
any other person present. He wore black kid gloves and never removed
them all during dinner--that puzzled me. Why he wore them I cannot say.
I never saw him wearing gloves at table again, or even out of doors.
Then he was in trouble with his cigar, and finally I noticed that he
threw it under the table and stamped upon it, and produced his favourite
dirty Charles the First pipe, the diminutive bowl of which he filled
continually with what smokers call "dottles." He was then apparently
perfectly happy, as indeed he always looked when puffing away at his
antique clay. Years afterwards, whe