One fine morning last August (yes, there was _one_), I stepped out of my diggings in an obscure Cornish fishing-village to find a gentleman busily engaged strangling a lady on the cliff side. He had her by the throat and was gradually forcing her over the edge. Once in Bristol I interposed in a slogging contest between husband and wife and was very properly chastised for my interference, not only by the happy pair but by the entire street, who had valuable bets laid on the event. That, you say, should have been a lesson to me. But you know me, Ginger, impetuous, chivalrous, brave; I simply couldn't stand there and watch a defenceless woman--moreover a good-looking woman--foully done to death like that. I flung myself upon the villain--that is to say I spoke to him about it. "Oh, dash it, old bean," I said, "draw it mild!" Somebody shouted something behind me, but I didn't catch its purport for the sufficient reason that at that moment the long-suffering cliff gave way and we all went overboard, all three of us, he, she and it--me. Fortunately the drop wasn't terrific--not more than four feet or so--and the tide happened to be in at the time, which was very decent of it. My first thought as I came to the surface--or, at any rate, _one_ of my first thoughts--was "What of the woman?" I struck out for the poor creature. At the same moment she struck out for me, and, what is more, she got me too, clean between the eyes--a straight left-hander. "Out of my way, fathead!" she hissed and went on for the shore under her own steam at about forty knots an hour. I was washed up myself, along with a quantity of other jetsam, a few minutes later, to be met by a small furious man with a heliotrope complexion and white spats who wagged bunches of typescript under my nose and informed me that I had absolutely ruined about twenty million feet of the Flickerscope Company's five-reel paralyser, "The Smuggler's Bride." Of course you say that you saw what was coming all along. Of course you did. But wait a moment. Yesterday afternoon I was strolling down a certain fashionable street when a loud explosion occurred in a near-by shop and a cloud of acrid grey smoke came rolling out. Being by nature as inquisitive as a chipmunk I was on the point of shoving my head round the door-jamb to see what was up when caution prompted me to turn round. Yes, there they were, of course, a tall, thin youth winding away at a cine-camera like an Italian at a barrel-organ, and beside him a heavy-weight Israelite, dancing a war-dance, waving bunches of typescript and howling at me to stand clear. I had very near ruined a further mile or two of film.