Mr. Henshaw regarded him steadfastly for some seconds, and then, taking a firm hold of his mug, slowly drained the contents. “And what about my voice?” he demanded, with something approaching a sneer. “That’s right,” said Mr. Stokes, hotly; “it wouldn’t be you if you didn’t try to make difficulties.” “But what about it?” said Mr. Henshaw, obstinately. “You can alter it, can’t you?” said the other. They were alone in the bar, and Mr. Henshaw, after some persuasion, was induced to try a few experiments. He ranged from bass, which hurt his throat, to a falsetto which put Mr. Stokes’s teeth on edge, but in vain. The rehearsal was stopped at last by the landlord, who, having twice come into the bar under the impression that fresh customers had entered, spoke his mind at some length. “Seem to think you’re in a blessed monkey-house,” he concluded, severely. “We thought we was,” said Mr. Stokes, with a long appraising sniff, as he opened the door. “It’s a mistake anybody might make.” He pushed Mr. Henshaw into the street as the landlord placed a hand on the flap of the bar, and followed him out. “You’ll have to ’ave a bad cold and talk in ’usky whispers,” he said slowly, as they walked along. “You caught a cold travelling in the train from Ireland day before yesterday, and you made it worse going for a ride on the outside of a ’bus with me and a couple o’ ladies. See? Try ’usky whispers now.” Mr. Henshaw tried, and his friend, observing that he was taking but a languid interest in the scheme, was loud in his praises. “I should never ’ave known you,” he declared. “Why, it’s wonderful! Why didn’t you tell me you could act like that?” Mr. Henshaw remarked modestly that he had not been aware of it himself, and, taking a more hopeful view of the situation, whispered himself into such a state of hoarseness that another visit for refreshment became absolutely necessary. “Keep your ’art up and practise,” said Mr. Stokes, as he shook hands with him some time later. “And if you can manage it, get off at four o’clock to-morrow and we’ll go round to see her while she thinks you’re still at work.” [Illustration: “‘And what about my voice?’ he demanded.”] Mr. Henshaw complimented him upon his artfulness, and, with some confidence in a man of such resource, walked home in a more cheerful frame of mind. His heart sank as he reached the house, but to his relief the lights were out and his wife was in bed.