I said I would, and we adventured along the dreary Wandsworth Road, down the evil-smelling Lavender Hill, into the strenuous endeavour of Clapham Junction. It was gay with lights and shoppers and parading monkeys. Above us hung a pallid, frosty sky. No stars; no moon; but down in the streets, warmth and cheer and companionship. We called at the blazing, bustling "Falcon," which is much more like a railway-junction than the station itself, and did ourselves a little bit of good, as my professional friend put it. Then we mounted to the gas-lit room where the fun was to take place. We wandered down long, stark passages, seeking our door. We heard voices, but we saw no door. "Harold," said some one, "sometimes wish you wasn't quite such a fool." "What's the matter now, Freddie?" asked A Voice. "Why, you know very well it's ten to eight, and you ain't even pulled the piano out." "Gaw! Lucky you reminded me. Come on, old chew-the-fat, give us a hand with the musical-box." There were noises "off," from which it seemed that some one had put something on top of something else. There were noises of some one hitting a piece of wood with another piece of wood. Then "Damn!" cried A Voice. "Steady on my feet, can't yeh? Bit more to the right. Whoa! Up your end a bit. 'At's it. When was she tuned last? Give us a scale." Some one flourished, and then a bright door opened, and two young men in shirt-sleeves with tousled brows, appeared. "Laddie," cried my friend, dramatically, "is this the apartment for the Young People's Society In Connection With The Falcon Road Miss----?" "That's us!" cried, I imagine, Freddie. "Then I am Victor Maulever." "Oh, step inside, won't you. Bit early, I'm 'fraid. Mr. Diplock ain't here yet. But come in. We got a fire going, and it's sort of turning chilly out, eh?" We stepped in, and Freddie introduced us. "Harold--this is Mr. Maulever, the actor. Mr. Maulever, may I introduce our sec't'ry, Mr. Worple--Mr. Harold Worple, I should say." Mr. Worple came forward and shook hands. "'Scuse my shirt-sleeves, won't you, sir?" "Certainly, laddie, cer-tain-ly," said Victor, with that _empressement_ which has earned him so many drinks in Maiden Lane. "Cer-tain-ly. And how are you?" "Nicely, thanks," said Harold. "How's 'self?" "So-so, just so-so. Now just tell me about your little affair, so I can get 'em fixed good and plenty before I start. What d'you think'll go best; you know 'em better than I do? Shakespeare--what? Bransby Williams? 'Dream of Eugene Aram'? 'Kissing Cup's Race'? Imitations of Robey, Formby, Chirgwin--what?" Harold pondered a moment. Then he had an inspiration. "Sort 'em up if I was you, sir. Sort 'em up. Then ev'body'll get something they like, see?"