“No, it isn’t,” she seriously responded, “but we were afraid of the shock you might get.” “Why, what shock?” “Well, there was a big fire just across the street and we were afraid if you awoke, and saw the flames, you might think that the operation hadn’t been successful.” That shows you what it is to have a reputation. A Really “Substantial” Breakfast. Two years later I was in the hospital again for an operation for hernia, and an incision was made in the same place as the previous one. The morning of the operation, I arose early and hobbled down stairs for a bath, to do which I had to pass the bedroom door of the matron—the sister of a high-titled Canadian now in London. You know, or perhaps you don’t know, that just previous to an operation, the patient is given no more food than would keep a sparrow from starving. But, like a son of Belial, I rapped thunderingly at the matron’s door, and she hopped out of bed and rushed to answer the apparently important summons. When she saw me she anxiously wanted to know what was the matter. “The matter—well, I want to tell you that you keep a mighty punk boarding-house. My breakfast—” “What,” she exclaimed in holy horror, “did they give you a breakfast this morning?” “Of course they did.” “And what did they give you?” “Oh,” I said nonchalantly, “I had a shave, and bath, a glass of water, and a copy of this morning’s _Gazette_.” When next the matron saw me I was languidly smoking a cigarette and dangling my legs on the operating table. And the look she gave me was as sharp as the doctor’s knife. In a week’s time, I was taken home in an ambulance and several cart drivers, out of morbid curiosity, jumped off their vehicles and on to mine, but when the third one impudently glared at me, I yelled out “smallpox” and, they all instantly skedaddled. One fellow, thank goodness, bruised his epidermis. An Afternoon of Gloom.