The interruption appeared to come on the three debaters like a bombshell. It had on them an effect much the same as an uninvited opinion from a young and newly joined member would have on a group of bishops and generals in the smoking-room of the Athenæum Club. For an instant there was a shocked silence; then the man in uniform spoke. “Wot do you want, stickin’ your ugly fat ’ead in?” he demanded coldly. Shakespeare, who knew too much ever to be surprised at man’s ingratitude, would probably have accepted this latest evidence of it with stoicism. It absolutely stunned Sam. A little peevishness from the two gentlemen of leisure he had expected, but that his sympathy and support should be received in this fashion by the man in uniform was simply disintegrating. It seemed to be his fate to-night to lack appeal for men in uniform. “Yus,” agreed the leader of the opposition, “’oo arsked you to shove in?” “Comin’ stickin’ ’is ’ead in!” sniffed the man in uniform. All three members of the supper party eyed him with manifest disfavour. The proprietor of the stall, a silent hairy man, said nothing: but he, too, cast a chilly glance of hauteur in Sam’s direction. There was a sense of strain. “I only said----” Sam began. “And ’oo arsked you to?” retorted the man in uniform. The situation was becoming difficult. At this tense moment, however, there was a rattling and a grinding of brakes and a taxicab drew up at the kerb, and out of its interior shot Mr. Willoughby Braddock. “Getta cuppa coffee,” observed Mr. Braddock explanatorily to the universe. CHAPTER SIX A FRIEND IN NEED Of certain supreme moments in life it is not easy to write. The workaday teller of tales, whose gifts, if any, lie rather in the direction of recording events than of analysing emotion, finds himself baffled by them. To say that Sam Shotter was relieved by this sudden reappearance of his old friend would obviously be inadequate. Yet it is hard to find words that will effectually meet the case. Perhaps it is simplest to say that his feelings at this juncture were to all intents and purposes those of the garrison besieged by savages in the final reel of a motion-picture super-super-film when the operator flashes on the screen the subtitle, “Hurrah! Here come the United States Marines!” And blended with this heart-shaking thankfulness, came instantaneously the thought that he must not let the poor fish get away again. “Here, I say!” said Mr. Braddock, becoming aware of a clutching hand upon his coat sleeve. “It’s all right, Bradder, old man,” said Sam. “It’s only me.” “Who?” “Me.” “Who are you?” “Sam Shotter.” “Sam Shotter?” “Sam Shotter.” “Sam Shotter who used to be at school with me?” “The very same.” “Are you Sam Shotter?” “I am.”