(2) Personal deformity (e.g., Policemen’s feet). (3) Conjugal infelicity; with which is incorporated Mothers-in-law. (4) Studies of insect life (e.g., Seaside lodgings). (5) Exaggerated metaphor (e.g., "Giddy kipper"). He enlarged upon all these, and illuminated each. He was unspeakably vulgar, and irresistibly amusing. The crowd took him to their bosoms. They roared at his gags; they sang his choruses; they clamoured for more. I shouted with the rest. This was the real Dicky Mainwaring--the unregenerate, unrestrained Freak of our undergraduate days--my friend given back to me in his right mind after a lamentable period of eclipse. My heart swelled foolishly. "Chorus once more, please, gentlemen!" shouted Dicky. "Last time!" [Illustration: "CHORUS ONCE MORE, PLEASE, GENTLEMEN!"] The refined and elevating pæan rolled forth, Dicky conducting:-- "Beer, Beer, glorious Beer! Fill yourself right up to here! (_Illustrative gesture._) Take a good deal of it, Make a good meal of it--" With head thrown back and mouth wide open, I shouted with the rest--and--caught the eye of Miss Hilda Beverley! She was standing exactly opposite to me on the other side of the circle. Next moment she was gone. ―――― It was the accompanist who gave in first. For nearly half an hour his aged but nimble fingers had followed the singer’s most extravagant flights, and he now began obviously to falter. Dicky seized this opportunity to conclude his performance. "That is all, gentlemen," he said, with a flourish of his hat. "I know no more. Thank you for your kind attention and assistance. But don’t go away. I am going to ask the Colonel here to carry his hat round." He signalled to the small pale-faced boy to take up a collection, but the child hung back shyly. Evidently he was not accustomed to enthusiastic audiences. Dicky accordingly borrowed his cone-shaped headpiece and set to work himself. Touch your neighbour’s heart, and his pocket is at your mercy. The bell was ringing for the last race, but not a man in that crowd stirred until he had contributed to Dicky’s collection. Silver and copper rained into the cap. I saw one sturdy old farmer clap Dicky upon the shoulder with a "Good lad! good lad!" and drop in half-a-crown. Then the audience melted away as suddenly as it had collected, and we five were left--Dicky, myself, the old man, his daughter, and the recently gazetted Colonel. The daughter still sat limply upon the grass. Dicky crossed over to her and emptied the collection into her lap. "You had better tie that up in a handkerchief," he said. He spoke awkwardly. He was no longer an inspired comedian--only a shy and self-conscious schoolboy. My thoughts flew back to a somewhat similar scene in a third-class carriage on the Great Eastern Railway many years before.