In the hall the members of my class were collected. Some were changing their clothes; others, already changed, were tapping the punch-ball. They knew that I always came punctually at nine o’clock, and they liked to be ready for me. Amongst those present was Sidney Price. Thomas Blake brought up short, hiccuping, in the midst of them. “Gimme that free tea!” he said. Sidney Price, whose moral fortitude has never been impeached, was the first to handle the situation. “My good man,” he said, “I am sorry to say you have made a mistake.” “A mistake!” said Thomas, quickly taking him up. “A mistake! Oh! What oh! My errer?” “Quite so,” said Price, diplomatically; “an error.” Thomas Blake sat down on the floor, fumbled for a short pipe, and said, “Seems ter me I’m sick of errers. Sick of ’em! Made a bloomer this mornin’—this way.” Here he took into his confidence the group which had gathered uncertainly round him. “My wife’s brother, ’im wot’s a postman, owes me arf a bloomin’ thick ’un. ’E’s a hard-working bloke, and ter save ’im trouble I came down ’ere from Brentford, where my boat lies, to catch ’im on ’is rounds. Lot of catchin’ ’e wanted, too—I _don’t_ think. Tracked ’im by the knocks at last. And then, wot d’yer think ’e said? Didn’t know nothing about no ruddy ’arf thick ’un, and would I kindly cease to impede a public servant in the discharge of ’is dooty. Otherwise—the perlice. That, mind you, was my own brother-in-law. Oh, he’s a nice man, I _don’t_ think!” Thomas Blake nodded his head as one who, though pained by the hollowness of life, is resigned to it, and proceeded to doze. The crowd gazed at him and murmured. Sidney Price, however, stepped forward with authority. “You’d better be going,” he said; and he gently jogged the recumbent boatman’s elbow. “Leave me be! I want my tea,” was the muttered and lyrical reply. “Hook it!” said Price. “Without my tea?” asked Blake, opening his eyes wide. “It was yesterday,” explained Price, brusquely. “There isn’t any free tea tonight.” The effect was magical. A very sinister expression came over the face of the prostrate one, and he slowly clambered to his feet. “Ho!” he said, disengaging himself from his coat. “Ho. There ain’t no free tea ternight, ain’t there? Bills stuck on them railings in errer, I suppose. Another bloomin’ errer. Seems to me I’m sick of errers. Wot I says is, ‘Come on, all of yer.’ I’m Tom Blake, I am. You can arst them down at Brentford. Kind old Tom Blake, wot wouldn’t hurt a fly; and I says, ‘Come on, all of yer,’ and I’ll knock yer insides through yer backbones.” Sidney Price spoke again. His words were honeyed, but ineffectual. “I’m honest old Tom, I am,” boomed Thomas Blake, “and I’m ready for the lot of yer: you and yer free tea and yer errers.” At this point Alf Joblin detached himself from the hovering crowd and said to Price: “He must be cowed. I’ll knock sense into the drunken brute.”