“As you please,” said his Worship, rather nettled. “I’m never a believer in long speechifying. Time we made a start, isn’t it? Look in, and tell them I’m coming, and they’ll be ready to applaud. What’s the chap’s name again? Enderby. George Enderby. Right you are!” A good audience had assembled, and several ladies, subscribers to the gift, were present. Two were talking deferentially to a puffed-faced man in the front row; they scuttled off to their seats as the platform people arrived. The man inspected his boots, shifting them uneasily. Mr. Mayor rapped the table with an ebony hammer, and said, in his most genial manner, that of all the duties imposed upon him during his year of office not one had given so much pleasure as this. They were probably acquainted with the facts and he would give them briefly. George Enderby, residing at 42, William Street, by occupation a house decorator, but at present out of work, was walking near the canal on the evening of Friday, the seventeenth of June. Some children were playing near the bank, and, in the endeavour to reach a piece of wood that was floating on the water, one little girl of six years of age suddenly slipped and—. Mr. Mayor read the type-written sheet to the end, took off his pince-nez. “Let George Enderby,” he ordered, “be kind enough to step up on the platform.” The friends of the puffed-faced man took him by the elbows; he resisted their efforts and was heard to say that he would see everybody hanged before he made a public exhibition of himself. An awkward delay occurred; the Mayor repeated his directions. The secretary hurried down from the platform, and induced George Enderby to consider afresh his decision. He went up the steps with every sign of reluctance, and stood there, turning cap in hands. “Enderby,” said the Mayor, with an air of heavy benevolence, “kindly answer one or two questions. In what condition of mind were you when you performed this gallant act?” “I wasn’t boozed,” replied the man defensively, “if that’s what you’re driving at. I’d had a glass or two, but I wasn’t abs’lutely oiled!” “That is not quite what I mean. What I want to find out is, were you thinking at the time of the value of human life, and how necessary it is that it should be preserved at all costs?” “If you must know, I waddent thinking nothing of the kind. Don’t worry myself about such matters.” “I see!” said the Mayor, slightly taken aback. “And—forgive my curiosity—but what were your sensations when you brought the child ashore? What was uppermost, so to speak, in your thoughts?” “I was wondering whether I sh’d catch a nasty cold!” “No, no!” said the Mayor, reproving the audience. “This worthy fellow is answering my questions to the best of his ability. Tell me, now,” turning again to the man on the platform, “have you performed many gallant actions of this kind in your life before?” “I ain’t.” “Never, perhaps, had the opportunity?”