The door was locked, but in response to his knocking it opened a couple of inches, and a gruff voice demanded his business. Then, before he could give it, the doorkeeper reeled back into the room, and Mr. Blows with a large following pushed his way in. The president and his officers, who were sitting in state behind a long table at the end of the room, started to their feet with mingled cries of indignation and dismay at the intrusion. Mr. Blows, conscious of the strength of his position, walked up to them. [Illustration] “_Mr. Blows!_” gasped the president. “Ah, you didn’t expec’ see me,” said Mr. Blows, with a scornful laugh. “They’re trying do me, do me out o’ my lill bit o’ money, Bill.” “But you ain’t got no money,” said his bewildered friend. Mr. Blows turned and eyed him haughtily; then he confronted the staring president again. “I’ve come for—my money,” he said, impressively—“one ’under-eighty pounds.” “But look ’ere,” said the scandalised Bill, tugging at his sleeve; “you ain’t dead, Jack.” “You don’t understan’,” said Mr. Blows, impatiently. “They know wharri mean; one ’undereighty pounds. They want to buy me a tombstone, an’ I don’t want it. I want the money. Here, stop it! _D’ye hear?_” The words were wrung from him by the action of the president, who, after eyeing him doubtfully during his remarks, suddenly prodded him with the butt-end of one of the property spears which leaned against his chair. The solidity of Mr. Blows was unmistakable, and with a sudden resumption of dignity the official seated himself and called for silence. “I’m sorry to say there’s been a bit of a mistake made,” he said, slowly, “but I’m glad to say that Mr. Blows has come back to support his wife and family with the sweat of his own brow. Only a pound or two of the money so kindly subscribed has been spent, and the remainder will be handed back to the subscribers.” “Here,” said the incensed Mr. Blows, “listen me.” “Take him away,” said the president, with great dignity. “Clear the room. Strangers outside.” Two of the members approached Mr. Blows and, placing their hands on his shoulders, requested him to withdraw. He went at last, the centre of a dozen panting men, and becoming wedged on the narrow staircase, spoke fluently on such widely differing subjects as the rights of man and the shape of the president’s nose. He finished his remarks in the street, but, becoming aware at last of a strange lack of sympathy on the part of his audience, he shook off the arm of the faithful Mr. Carter and stalked moodily home. THE THIRD STRING