She waved her hand to him from the lift, and he proceeded to the smoking-room in search of Cresswell. * * * * * The poet, having received forty pounds from his publishers, was thoroughly disposed towards a frivolous evening. He was consequently a little dismayed when, as they sat at dinner that same evening, Aaron Rodd, who had been a little distrait, suggested an alteration in their evening's entertainment. "I wonder," he said, "if, instead of going to the 'Empire,' you would care to see a bout between Canary Joe and a youthful barman who I understand possesses genius?" The poet made a wry face. "I am rather fed up with biffing just now," he confessed, "but Canary Joe--why, that's old man Potts' protégé." Aaron nodded. "The affair is to take place in a room at the back of his public-house," he observed. Cresswell sipped his wine and considered. His attitude was obviously unfavourable. "I am in the humour," he declared, "for a more enervating atmosphere, the warmth and comfort of the Empire lounge, the charm of feminine society--even from a distance," he added hastily. "I am feeling human to-night, Aaron Rodd--very human." "It is possible," his companion continued slowly, "that an adventure----" The poet's manner changed. "More than anything in the world I am in the humour for an adventure," he asserted eagerly. "Then I think we will see Canary Joe," Aaron Rodd decided. "You shall be my guide." The long taxi-ride would have been a little depressing but for the poet's uproarious spirits. He sang himself hoarse and filled the vehicle with cigarette smoke. They reached at last a region of small streets all running one way; in the background a vision of lights, suspended apparently from nowhere, the sound of an occasional siren, the constant, sometimes overpowering odour of river-side mud. When at last the taxicab came to a standstill, they were near enough to the river to hear its rise and fall against a little bank of shingle. From behind the closely-drawn windows of the public-house, one side of which seemed to abut on to the river-side, came the sound of many voices. They dismissed the taxicab and pushed open the swing-doors. The poet, who had been complaining bitterly of thirst on the way down, led the way to the counter. "Two whiskies and sodas, Tim," he ordered. "Where's the guv'nor?" The man jerked his thumb over his shoulder. "Up in the room, getting things to rights," he announced. "If you take my advice, Mr. Cresswell, you'll slip in there as soon as you've had your drink. There'll be a crowd when the gong goes, and they're a tough lot to struggle with for seats."