"Course not," said Jimmy. "That's the whole trouble. Ain't I breaking it to you gently? . . . Case of _angina pectoris_, if you know what that means. It sounds like a pick-me-up--'try Angostura bitters to keep up your Pecker.' But it isn't. Angina--short 'i'; I know because I tried it on the Dean with a long one and he corrected me. He said that angina might be forgiven, for once, in a young man bereaved and labouring under strong emotion, but that if I apprehended its running in the family I had better get the quantity right. He also remarked rather pointedly that he hoped his memory was at fault and that my poor brother hadn't really lost his deceased wife's sister." "Do you know where bad boys go?" I asked him. "Silly question," said Jimmy, with his mouth full of _foie gras_. "Why, to the Derby, of course. Have something to eat." I told him that we had lunched, introduced him to Foe as the Malefactor, and invited him to come back and dine with us at Prince's before catching the late train for Oxford. He answered that fate always smiled on him at these funerals, paid off his cabby, and joined us. Our dinner that evening was a brilliant success; and we left it to drive to Paddington to see the boy off. He had dropped a few pounds over the Derby but made the most of it up by a plunge on the last race: "and what with your standing me a dinner, I'm all up on the day's working and that cheerful I could kiss the guard." He wasn't in the least drunk, either; but explained to me very lucidly, on my taxing him with his real offence--cutting Oxford for a day when, the Eights being a short week off, he should have been in strict training--that all the strength of the B.N.C. boat that year lying on stroke side (he rowed at "six"), one might look on a _Peche Melba_ and a Corona almost in the light of a prescription. "Friend of my youth," he added--addressing me, "and"--addressing Foe--"prop, sole prop, of my declining years--as you love me, be cruel to be kind and restrain me when I show a disposition to kiss yon bearded guard." As the tail of the train swung out of the station Foe said meditatively, "I like that boy," . . . And so it was. That autumn, when Jimmy Collingwood, having achieved a pass degree--"by means," as he put it, "only known to myself"--came up to share my chambers and read for the Bar, he and Foe struck up a warm affection. For once, moreover, Foe broke his habit of keeping his friends in separate cages. He was too busy a man to join us often; but when we met we were the Three Musketeers.