"Bah!" he said. "We sacrifice the whole of our lives to the ideas implanted in us during the first foolish years of them." Sir Robert Wherry lay adying. He had never been able to resist an obituary. Never an illustrious man died but Wherry rushed into print, preferably in the _Times_ newspaper, with reminiscence and lamentation. So, as he lay adying, he composed many obituaries of himself. There were reporters at his door waiting upon his utterances. They came as regularly as the bulletins. As each might be his last, it was carefully framed to rival Goethe's or Nelson's or the Earl of Chatham's final words. Three of them began: "We men of England . . ." one "My mother said . . ." two with the word "Love . . ." and once, remembering William Blake, he raised his head and prated of angels. Last, with the true inspiration of death, faithful to himself and the work of his life, he turned and smiled at his nurse and his wife and daughter and said: "Give my love to my public." So he died, and there were tears in thousands of British homes that night. His death crowded every other topic to the back pages of the newspapers. There were columns of anecdotes and every day brought a fresh flood of tributes from divines, lecturers, novelists, dramatists, publicists of all kinds. One newspaper sent this reply-paid telegram to Old Mole: _Please send thirty-six words on Wherry._ Having no other use for the printed form, Old Mole filled it in thus: _He sold sugar.--Beenham._ His tribute was not printed. There arose a mighty quarrel as to whether or no Wherry should be buried in Westminster Abbey. The Poets' Corner was crowded. Only an indubitable immortal should have the privilege of resting his bones there. The voices of the nation stormed in argument. Were the works of Wherry literature? Men of acknowledged greatness had found (comparatively) obscure graves. Was there not a risk? . . . There was no risk, said the other side. The heart of the nation had been moved by Wherry, the life of the Empire had been made sweeter because Wherry had lived and written. Lady Wherry was consulted. A picture of her appeared, with a black-edged handkerchief in front of her face, in the illustrated morning papers. And under it was printed her historic reply: "Bury him by all means----" Emotion cut short her words. The argument was finally taken for decision to high places. Those in them had read the works of Wherry and, like the smallest servant in a suburban garret, had been moved to tears by them. It was arranged. The Dean and Chapter bowed to the decision. There was to be a procession. All the celebrities were invited, and, as one of them, Old Mole was included. None was omitted. Never a man who had so much as thrust his nose into the limelight was left out. In the music-halls it was announced on the kinematograph screens that special films would be presented of the funeral of Sir Robert Wherry, and the audiences applauded.