Sam, when the summons came for him to go to his employer’s office, was reading with no small complacency a little thing of his own in the issue of Pyke’s _Home Companion_ which would be on the bookstalls next morning. It was signed Aunt Ysobel, and it gave some most admirable counsel to Worried (Upper Sydenham) who had noticed of late a growing coldness toward her on the part of her betrothed. He had just finished reading this, marvelling, as authors will when they see their work in print, at the purity of his style and the soundness of his reasoning, when the telephone rang and he learned that Lord Tilbury desired his presence. He hastened to the holy of holies and found there not only His Lordship but a little man with a waxed moustache, to which he took an instant dislike. “Ah, Shotter,” said Lord Tilbury. There was a pause. Lord Tilbury, one hand resting on the back of his chair, the fingers of the other in the fold of his waistcoat, stood looking like a Victorian uncle being photographed. The little man fingered the waxed moustache. And Sam glanced from Lord Tilbury to the moustache inquiringly and with distaste. He had never seen a moustache he disliked more. “Ah, Shotter,” said Lord Tilbury, “this is a man named Twist, who was at one time in my employment.” “Odd-job man,” interpolated the waxed-moustached one. “As odd-job man,” said Lord Tilbury. “Ah?” said Sam. “He is now out of work.” Sam, looking at Mr. Twist, considered that this spoke well for the rugged good sense of the employers of London. “I have nothing to offer him myself,” continued Lord Tilbury, “so it occurred to me that you might possibly have room for him in your new house.” “Me?” said Sam. “I should take it as a personal favour to myself if you would engage Twist. I naturally dislike the idea of an old and--er--faithful employee of mine being out of work.” Mr. Twist’s foresight was justified. Put in this way, the request was one that Sam found it difficult to refuse. “Oh, well, in that case----” “Excellent! No doubt you will find plenty of little things for him to do about your house and garden.” “He can wash the dog,” said Sam, inspired. The question of the bathing of Amy was rapidly thrusting itself into the forefront of the domestic politics of Mon Repos. “Exactly! And chop wood and run errands and what not.” “There’s just one thing,” said Sam, who had been eying his new assistant with growing aversion. “That moustache must come off.” “What?” cried Chimp, stricken to the core. “Right off at the roots,” said Sam sternly. “I will not have a thing like that about the place, attracting the moths.”