It was the main course of the meal that brought the climax. It was roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, excellently cooked, and, so far as we were concerned, efficiently served. The irrepressible boots had, however, by this time drifted back to duty. I saw him bear plates to the old people's table containing a pale mess which I rightly concluded was the "minced chicken and rice--peptonized," already referred to by the old gentleman. The couple eyed it suspiciously while their attendant hovered near, apparently awaiting the congratulations which were bound to follow the consumption of the dish. "John, it's beef!" screamed the old lady, starting to her feet and spluttering. "Damme, so it is!" confirmed her husband, after a bare mouthful. "Hi, you--scoundrel, poisoner, assassin--send the manager here at once." He waved his napkin in fury, and boots cocked an eye at him curiously. "Won't you have another try?" he urged. "Be sporty about it. Hang it, it looks like chopped chicken, and it is chopped. I chopped it myself. Have another try. You'll believe it in time if you persevere. It's the first step that counts, you know. I used to be able to say that in French, but--" He only got so far because the old gentleman had been inarticulate with rage. "Fetch the manager, and don't dare utter another word, confound you!" he shouted. A few moments later our friend Mr. Gunthorpe entered. His eyes were bright, and a satisfied smile rested on his lips. "Good evening, sir," he began affably. "I believe you sent for me. I hope everything is to your taste?" "Everything is nothing of the sort, sir!" retorted the old gentleman. "You have attempted a gross fraud upon us, sir. I find on the menu, chicken, and it is nothing more nor less than chopped beef. And 'peptonized'--peptonized be hanged, sir! It's no more peptonized than my hat!" "Well, sir, as for your hat I can say nothing, but--" "None of your insolence, sir. I insist on having this--filth taken away and something suitable put before us. My wife has possessed a duodenal ulcer for fourteen years come September, and--" "Be hanged to your duodenal ulcer! As this isn't its birthday, why should it have a blinking banquet. Let it take pot-luck with the rest of us." A sudden burst of uncontrollable laughter made me turn sharply, to find that the reserve had fallen from our chilly waitress, who was vainly endeavouring to smother her laughter in her professional napkin. "Oh, Bill!" she cried, "you've done it now. The game's up." The old lady and gentleman arose in outraged dignity and started to leave the room, when a diversion was caused by the entrance of a pleasant-faced lady in hat and cloak. I had been semi-conscious for some moments of a motor-engine running at the hotel door. "Oh, Mr. Gunthorpe, what luck!" cried the newcomer. "I've collected a full staff, and brought them all up from Dolgelly with me, look you."