looked angry and annoyed, and before my "double" came up to me, my
friend, scowling at me, said, "Sir, I think it is infernal bad taste on
your part to imitate my friend Harry Furniss!"

Who is it that says we English have no sense of humour? My "double" in
the preceding tale was my brother-in-law, who as a boy was the companion
of Mr. George Grossmith, and in fact once appeared as an amateur at
German Reed's, the old Gallery of Illustration, in a piece, with "Gee
Gee" as his double, entitled "Too much Alike."

He was also an inveterate and clever _raconteur_, and of course
occasionally made a slip, as for instance, on a railway journey to
Brighton once, when he found himself alone with a stranger. The stranger
in conversation happened to ask my relative casually if he were fond of
travelling. "Travelling? I should rather think so" he replied airily,
and imagining he was impressing someone who was "something in the City,"
he continued, "Yes, sir, I'm a pretty experienced traveller. Been mostly
round the world and all that kind of thing, you know, and had my share
of adventures, I can tell you!" After a bit he gained more confidence,
and launched into details, giving the stranger the benefit of his
experience. "Why, sir, you read in books that hunters of big game, such
as tigers, watch their eyes. Not a bit of it. What you have got to do
is to watch the _tail_, and that's the thing. It mesmerises the animal,
so to speak, and you have him at your mercy," and so forth, and so
forth. On arriving at the hotel he found his travelling companion had
just signed his name in the visitors' book. It was Richard Burton! My
brother-in-law hastened to apologise to Sir Richard for his absurd
tales. He had no idea, of course, to whom he was retailing his stiff
yarns. Burton laughed. "My dear sir, not a word, please. I was more
entertained than I can tell you. You really might have travelled--you
lie so well!"

[Illustration: TWO TRAVELLERS.]

One of the most eccentric men I ever met, and certainly one of the most
successful journalists--a _rara avis_, for he made a fortune in Fleet
Street, and retired to live in a castle in the country--was a man whose
name, although a very singular one, remains absolutely unknown even to
members of the Fourth Estate. He was a clever, hard-working journalist;
every line he wrote--and he was always writing--was printed and
well-paid for, but he never signed an article, whilst others,
journalists, sp