"Hearrr am Oi, an honest, Christian man, a professor of the healun art, the noblest art which—— Begad, Oi _know_ Oi paid ut ye. And be jabers, hearrr’s—hearrr’s the front-door key—yure front-door key—his, Oi should say, Doctorrr, which he gave me when Oi, when Oi—— "For the love of Hiven, Doctorrr, tell me—tell me truly, Doctorrr, where in Satan’s name is the dirty little practus which I bought and paid for yesterday?" *XXIII* *THE SURVIVOR* Everybody must still remember the sensational explosion at Stoat’s cordite factory in Limehouse. It was quite the talk of last year’s gooseberry season. I may remind you that one departmental manager, one bookkeeper, one lady typist, and eighteen hands were utterly and instantaneously atomised; that the managing director himself sustained a shock; and that more than seventy operatives had to be removed in ambulances at the company’s expense. It will be remembered that very High Personages sent telegrams of sympathy. A sum of money was publicly subscribed for the relief and burial of the sufferers. The great heart of England was touched, though it did not leave off beating. But those whose recollection of that horrible, soul-thrilling catastrophe is as keen as mine will remember that, viewed from the broad and enlightened standpoint of news-value, its most important feature was Mr. John Boyle. This honest artisan went up with the gentleman book-keeper and the lady typist and the hands. But unlike them he came down unbroken and almost unhurt, being so fortunate as to alight upon a providential mound of cotton-waste. Few people will need to be reminded how this clever action was rewarded. A special (_D—— M——_) collection, amounting to nearly £300, was raised in three weeks and presented to Mr. Boyle in recognition of his courage and ingenuity. Pictures of Mr. Boyle in all varieties of dress, attitude, and employment were published in the journals. I have an especially vivid recollection of one picture, appearing in a Sunday newspaper. The photographer had caught the noteworthy features of Mr. Boyle at a particularly happy moment; and with consummate art he had represented our hero as emerging from a bad fog with a patch on his chest. This study bore the following inscription: "John Boyle at Home: He nurses the baby." The next stage in Mr. Boyle’s development, or (to state it more correctly) in the development of the public attitude towards Mr. Boyle, was his engagement to appear at the Shoreditch Hippodrome in a dramatic entertainment called "The Man Who was Blown Up."