One of the earliest recollections I have of him is connected with a _tête-à-tête_ dinner (the tater-tart came many years after) in one of the Fleet Street taverns. We had finished our ample meal, when in came my old friend Tom Sutton, of the _Athletic News_, and seeing nothing but empty plates before us, cheerily invited us to dine. I was about to explain the situation, when the Bounder, to warn me off, winking sideways, affably answered, "All right, old chap. I'll have a steak and a tankard of stout." This he consumed, together with several accessories and supplements pressed upon his easy acquiescence by our genial host. At last came the solemn moment When the banquet's o'er, The dreadful reckoning, and men smile no more. Tom Sutton looked, and looked again, pulled his moustache, and called the waiter. "I say," he protested, "there's a mistake here. We haven't had all this." "Mistake, sir?" said the waiter. "No, dere vas no mistake, sir; I haf charge for dat gentleman all his two dinner. Dat gentleman always have two dinner sometimes. No mistake." "Two dinners? Why"-- But at that moment Tom looked across the table, saw the Bounder's huge frame shaking with inward chuckles, which rose to a roar as their eyes met, and then he paid and said no more. The Bounder was of course the Mentor who introduced me to Bower's. I was "up" for a day, and of course we "signified the same in the usual manner." "Albert," said the Bounder, "bring me a glass of _my_ port--from behind the glue-pot." I said I would take the same, and put down half a crown. Albert brought tenpence change. As I counted it, I began, "I say, is this change"-- The Bounder, who had been watching, at once interrupted me. "Don't expose your untutored provincial ignorance," he said; "tenpence a time. Always have it with provincials. Tenpence left? Order another." * * * * * It was soon after the _Clarion_ removed its headquarters to London, that I paid my first visit to the Cheshire Cheese, the primitive tavern, with "nicely sanded floor," which, in a dingy Fleet Street court, still rears its antique head in proud and successful defiance of the gimcrack modern amply-mirrored restaurant. It was a damp, cold, miserable November night, and I had been tramping with the partner of my joys all day through slush and mire in search of houses. Looking in for letters at the _Clarion's_ gloomy little office in Bouverie Street, I found Fay crouching disconsolately over a handful of expiring embers in the grate. He had been ill for many weeks, and had been reduced to a painful diet of buns and milk, but yet, if he might not feast, he could still take an interest in other people's feasting. Doctors could not rob him of that comfort. So he inquired with touching interest where we proposed to dine. My Bosom's Lord, with native Cornish trend, asked where was food the cheapest.