But by the time he had reached this altitude of greatness the fame of Mr. Boyle was already well established; his name had become familiar to the national ear. For months before the day of Mr. Boyle’s historic decision to blend his destiny with that of the national drama it had been a common thing to hear men say to other men: "’Ullo, Charlie; been ’avin’ one with Boyle?" This oft-repeated sally, which never failed to provoke laughter, was popularly supposed to embody a charge of alcoholic excess. In these days, when Mr. Boyle as "The Man Who was Blown Up" has enjoyed three hundred consecutive nights of fame, it is regarded as a silly thing to joke about him. He is now a solemn National fact. But it was my own particular good fortune to meet Mr. Boyle at a period when the hand of Fame had barely touched him. I made his acquaintance within twenty-four hours after the tremendous moment which had so exalted Mr. Boyle and his fortunes. Mr. Boyle, having been detained for a brief period at a local infirmary, was anointed with surgical balm and dismissed; when he immediately came round to the sixpenny surgery of Dr. Brink, demanding a certificate of injuries which should enable him to extract some monetary compensation from the coffers of Stoat’s Cordite Works, Limited. Mr. Boyle was not then prognostic of the public rewards which awaited him. Mr. Boyle having stated his business, the doctor became excited and summoned me to leave the hiding-place and join him openly in the consulting-room. "This chap," he explained, "is John Boyle, who was blown up with other employed objects at the cordite works, and who is still alive. If you are a real journalist you will get ’copy’ out of him." I took Mr. Boyle by the hand and I said to him— "You have had an awful experience, old chap. My God, you have lived through an awful thing." Mr. Boyle said: "I believe you, guv’nor. Now this is a funny thing, ain’t it. I was ’it on the leg by somethink; and whatever it was, it went right through me trouser but never ’urt the sock. Funny thing, that, ain’t it?" "Quite extraordinary," I admitted. "All the other poor chaps in your shop are dead, aren’t they?" "Twelve chaps and four females; all dead," admitted Mr. Boyle. "Funny thing, wasn’t it? Right through me trouser and never touched the sock!" "Eighty injured from the other shops!" I reflected. "What did you think—how did you feel, when—when you realised it all?" "I never thought much abaht it," responded Mr. Boyle. "Me leg was ’urtin’." "It isn’t a matter one need encourage him to think about," suggested the doctor. "I can’t ’elp thinking about one thing, though," interpolated Mr. Boyle. "Such a funny thing: Right through——" "It must have been an awful moment," I hazarded, "when you came to your senses and looked about and saw the—the awfulness of it. What did you do?"