"Chorus, boys!" he roared, and the boys, forming up in a line behind a red-haired youth from Wales--with a voice worthy of his nationality--pranced round the table as they let go the taking refrain at the top of their voices:-- Oh, follow the man from Cook’s! The wonderful man from Cook’s! And, whether your stay be short or long, You’ll see the sights, for he can’t go wrong. Oh, follow the man from Cook’s! The wonderful man from Cook’s! For it’s twenty to one that there’s plenty of fun, If you follow the man from Cook’s! The last words of the chorus were ringing out into the quadrangle, when a porter entered the room and informed the pianist that a lady wished to see him. "Lady!" exclaimed Jim. "Yes, sir; wishes to see you very particular." "Go on, Long ’Un!" yelled the students, "next verse." But Jim’s head was filled with romantic ideas. What if, for some strange, inexplicable reason, it should happen to be Dora! True, it was not very likely, but he had read in books of things like this happening. "Half a second, you men," he said; "I’ve got to see somebody." "Girl?" queried the red-haired youth from Wales. But Jim (hoping it was) hurried out without replying to him. He found his fair visitor to be no other than Mrs Freeman, his landlady. "Mr Mortimer, sir," she said, in some agitation, "this came for you just now, sir. I hope it’s not bad news, sir." For in the homely eyes of the landlady a telegram generally loomed large as a portent of ill. Jim opened the flimsy envelope, and read: "Annie arrives nine to-night. Please meet. Jim." Until this moment he had forgotten all about the wire he had sent himself. Now it had reached him in all its imbecile meaninglessness. Mrs Freeman regarded his face anxiously. "Not bad news, I ’ope, sir?" Jim crushed the thing into his pocket somewhat impatiently. "No; it’s all right, thanks, Mrs Freeman. It’s--it’s nothing. Thanks for bringing it." And so Mrs Freeman had to retrace her steps to Pimlico, feeling (it must be confessed) somewhat disappointed at the non-tragic contents of the message she had so carefully conveyed to the hospital. Jim imbibed more beer and sang more songs, and finally, when the party broke up, dragged Koko off to dine at the Trocadero. All through the meal Jim was excessively merry, his bursts of laughter causing many of the diners to glance curiously in his direction. Koko, knowing by long experience that he could do nothing to stem Jim’s methods of letting off steam, decided that his place to-night must be by Mortimer’s side; so he hastily scribbled a note asking a colleague to report the fight at the National Milling Club for which he (Koko) had been booked, and despatched it to the _Sporting Mail_ office by a special messenger. Koko felt easier in his mind when he had done this; he saw that Jim intended to make a night of it, and that his programme would be a variegated one.