“Call me a drunkard, do yer?” replied Blake. “Go on. Say it again. Say I’m a blarsted liar, won’t yer? Orlright, then I shall run away.” And with that he wrenched himself away from me and set off towards the Circus. He was trying to run, but his advance took the form of semi-circular sweeps all over the pavement. He had circled off so unexpectedly that he had gained some fifty yards before we realised what was happening. “We must stop him,” said the Reverend. “As I’m intoxicated,” I said, coldly (being a bit fed up with things), “I should recommend you stopping him, Mr. Hatton.” “I’ve done you an injustice,” said the Reverend. “You have,” said I. Blake was now nearing a policeman. “Stop him!” we both shouted, starting to run forward. The policeman brought Blake to a standstill. “Friend of yours?” said the constable when we got up to him. “Yes,” said the Reverend. “You ought to look after him better,” said the constable. “Well, really, I like that!” said the Reverend; but he caught my eye and began laughing. “Our best plan,” he said, “is to get a four-wheeler and go down to the Temple. There’s some supper there. What do you say?” “I’m on,” I said, and to the Temple we accordingly journeyed. Tom Blake was sleepy and immobile. We spread him without hindrance on a sofa, where he snored peacefully whilst the Reverend brought eggs and a slab of bacon out of a cupboard in the kitchen. He also brought a frying-pan, and a bowl of fat. “Is your cooking anything extra good?” he asked. “No, Mr. Hatton,” I answered, rather stiff; “I’ve never cooked anything in my life.” I may not be in a very high position in the “Moon,” but I’ve never descended to menial’s work yet. For about five minutes after that the Reverend was too busy to speak. Then he said, without turning his head away from the hissing pan, “I wish you’d do me a favour, Price.” “Certainly,” I said. “Look in the cupboard and see whether there are any knives, forks, plates, and a loaf and a bit of butter, will you?” I looked, and, sure enough, they were there. “Yes, they’re all here,” I called to him. “And is there a tray?” “Yes, there’s a tray.” “Now, it’s a funny thing that my laundress,” he shouted back, “can’t bring in breakfast things for more than one on that particular tray. She’s always complaining it’s too small, and says I ought to buy a bigger one.” “Nonsense,” I exclaimed, “she’s quite wrong about that. You watch what I can carry in one load.” And I packed the tray with everything he had mentioned. “What price that?” I said, putting the whole boiling on the sitting-room table. The Reverend began to roar with laughter. “It’s ridiculous,” he chuckled. “I shall tell her it’s ridiculous. She ought to be ashamed of herself.” Shortly after we had supper, previously having aroused Blake.