“A _military_ hero?” said my Lady. The fat little man simpered. “Well, yes,” he replied, modestly casting down his eyes. “My ancestors were all famous for military genius.” My Lady smiled graciously. “It often runs in families,” she remarked: “just as a love for pastry does.” The Baron looked slightly offended, and the Vice-Warden discreetly changed the subject. “Dinner will soon be ready,” he said. “May I have the honour of conducting your Adiposity to the guest-chamber?” “Certainly, certainly!” the Baron eagerly assented. “It would never do to keep _dinner_ waiting!” And he almost trotted out of the room after the Vice-Warden. He was back again so speedily that the Vice-Warden had barely time to explain to my Lady that her remark about “a love for pastry” was “unfortunate. You might have seen, with half an eye,” he added, “that that’s _his_ line. Military genius, indeed! Pooh!” “Dinner ready yet?” the Baron enquired, as he hurried into the room. “Will be in a few minutes,” the Vice-Warden replied. “Meanwhile, let’s take a turn in the garden. You were telling me,” he continued, as the trio left the house, “something about a great battle in which you had the command of the infantry——” “True,” said the Baron. “The enemy, as I was saying, far outnumbered us: but I marched my men right into the middle of—what’s that?” the Military Hero exclaimed in agitated tones, drawing back behind the Vice-Warden, as a strange creature rushed wildly upon them, brandishing a spade. “It’s only the Gardener!” the Vice-Warden replied in an encouraging tone. “Quite harmless, I assure you. Hark, he’s singing! It’s his favorite amusement.” And once more those shrill discordant tones rang out:— “He thought he saw a Banker’s Clerk Descending from the bus: He looked again, and found it was A Hippopotamus: ‘If this should stay to dine,’ he said, ‘There won’t be much for us!’” Throwing away the spade, he broke into a frantic jig, snapping his fingers, and repeating, again and again “There won’t be much for us! There won’t be much for us!” [Illustration: ‘IT WAS A HIPPOPOTAMUS’] Once more the Baron looked slightly offended, but the Vice-Warden hastily explained that the song had no allusion to _him_, and in fact had no meaning at all. “You didn’t mean anything by it, now _did_ you?” He appealed to the Gardener, who had finished his song, and stood, balancing himself on one leg, and looking at them, with his mouth open. “I never means nothing,” said the Gardener: and Uggug luckily came up at the moment, and gave the conversation a new turn.