Perhaps the secret of Toole’s charm lay in an entire absence of pretence either social or intellectual. Something deeply human in his nature left him always at his ease in whatever society he might find himself; and, in a sense of humour which appreciated and detected without resentment the foibles of all whom he encountered, I think there are few men of his generation who could claim to be his equal. He laid no claim to any largeness of education, and I suppose there were few men who had read less, but in that knowledge that could be won without the aid of literature he was a genuine scholar. He read life truly and swiftly, genially and humorously. He knew it well because he loved it well. Put him where you would, in any company, however divergent their claims, and not an hour could pass before Toole had seized with quick enjoyment upon the separate characteristics of nearly every man at the table. What he loved most, I think, outside of that part of his life which was spent in the theatre, was an aimless ramble in search of fun. Many and many such a vagrant day have I passed in his company, and not a barren one of them all. One such in particular I recall which may stand as a sample of many more. He had called for me quite early in the morning in his victoria, armed with only the naked suggestion that we should pay a visit to the city. For the city, therefore, we started, with no settled plan of operation, and it was only when we had reached the narrowest part of Thames Street that Toole seemed suddenly possessed with the outline of his programme for the day. The portly figure of a uniformed porter standing at the gateway of some wholesale warehouse arrested his attention, and calling upon the driver to stop, he hobbled out of the carriage with his quaint lame walk, and at once engaged this forbidding-looking official in friendly converse. It was the time when the wheel-and-van tax had lately been imposed, and Toole drawing a note-book from his pocket declared to the amazed individual he was addressing that we had come down to the city to collect opinions on the subject. The man at first was stubbornly reluctant to enter into conversation, but Toole’s insinuating amiability of manner was not to be withstood, and he at last drew from this unfortunate individual an opinion, the purport of which I scarcely now remember, but which apparently, as Toole’s enthusiasm declared, clinched the subject. “If that’s your opinion,” he said, “will you kindly see to it, as my friend and I are busy,” and with that enigmatic declaration he hobbled back to the victoria, leaving the unfortunate porter with a blank look of puzzled amazement on his face. “To the Tower,” cried Toole to the coachman, “and as quickly as possible, for we have a lot of work to do.” Arrived there, Toole at once, in tones of confidential secrecy, addressed the first Beefeater who stood by the gateway. “What have you done?” he inquired in an anxious voice.