"A hundred's the game," says the Englishman, putting up his cue. "One shilling." I wonder if this is an English custom--to pay your victor a shilling, instead of paying the keeper of the tables. But as there is no one else to pay, I pay the Englishman. Bunker has fallen asleep in his chair. "Going on the Continent?" the Englishman asks. "Not at present. We return to London first, and go from there." "'Ave you got a guide?" I am on the point of saying that guides are a nuisance I do not tolerate, when the Englishman hands me a bit of paste-board. "There is my card, sir," he says. "A. SHARPE, Interpreter and Courier." On the opposite side I read-- SPEAKS SPRICHT PARLE PARLA French, Französich, Frangais, Francese, German, Deutsch, Allemand, Tedesco, Italian and Italienisch u. Italien et Italiano ed English Englisch Anglais Inglese fluently sehr geläufig. courrament. correntemente. At present he has charge of this billiard-room, but he is ready to follow me to the ends of the earth for a period of not less than three months. I tell him I can get on without a guide. "But I would go on the most reasonable terms. I would go for as low as ten pounds a month and my expenses." "Would you go for nothing?" Bunker wakes up and pops this out at him so suddenly as to quite take his breath away. He expands his hands at his trousers pockets, shrugs his shoulders and looks volumes of reproach. "Because," Bunker adds, in a soothing tone, "I shouldn't like to have you along, even at that price." He immediately goes to putting the room to rights. "Horrible breath that man had," says Bunker when we come out: "did you notice it?" "Yes." "Take that breath around with us on the Continent! Why, if he was in Cologne itself, his breath would be in the majority." I had my umbrella in the billiard-room, and next morning I can't find it anywhere. At breakfast I ask the pompous head-waiter if he knows of my umbrella. He states that he does not. After breakfast I look in the billiard-room. It is not there. I go down to the office, and interrupt the worsted work there in progress by requesting that a search be made for my missing umbrella. The young lady whose ear I have gained kindly condescends to call the porter, and turning me over to that functionary returns to her worsted. The porter is respectful, but doubtful. The moment he learns that the lost article is an umbrella his manner is pervaded with a gentle hopelessness. He, however, listens forbearingly to my story. "And aboot what time was it, sir, when ye went ty bed?" "About half-past eleven." "Oh, then the night porter ull know of it, sir. He's abed now. I'll ask him when he gets oop."