Tom was universally popular. I took him everywhere with me. In his way, he was a sportsman. One day, hunting with the Duke of Beaufort's hounds, I mounted him on a skewbald pony. We came to a nasty slippery place, a bad take-off, a wall to jump, and the road beyond. Tom's pony took it safely. A big, hard-riding guardsman who was coming up behind us, not liking the look of the place, shouted to me, "Is it all right?" "That hideous Chinaman has just done it!" I shouted back. Not to be outdone by a Chinaman, the guardsman {84} rode at the fence, his horse went down, and he got a dreadful toss. When he got up, he was furiously angry with me. When Tom had been with me for some years, he came to me and said, "Master, you never give me leave! You give others leave but not me leave. I want leave." The request was reasonable enough, and I sent Tom to my house in town, there to amuse himself for a week. At the end of the week he did not return. He was reported missing. I advertised for him, offering a reward. The next day he was arrested at the Criterion Restaurant, being one of a party of thirteen (of whom twelve were ladies) to whom Tom was about to play the host. It turned out that during his week in town, my faithful servant had spent £70. He had also raised money at one of my clubs. "Lord Charles want twenty-five pounds," he said to the porter, who took him to the cashier. "His lordship must give me his I.O.U.," says the cashier. "What thing that?" says Tom. The cashier explained. "All-light," says the man of resource, and promptly forged my I.O.U. for thirty-five pounds. "You said twenty-five," remarked the cashier. "I tink Lord Charles like little more," Tom replied. Of course, the cashier sent me the document. When I investigated Tom's transactions, I found a few of his forged cheques in the bank, and I could hardly tell the difference between my signature and his forgeries. The cheque-books were compared with the pass-book, and counterfoils were found to be missing. I took legal action against him, and he was sentenced to five years. Shortly afterwards, when I was in Scotland, I received a letter from the hapless Tom, saying he was dying, and asking me to come and see him. I went at once. I found him in the infirmary, a dying man indeed, with his face to the wall. A Chinaman dies at will. He simply lies down and dies; but by the same {85} token, he can continue to live. So I determined to rouse him. I hailed him in a loud and cheerful voice. "Tom! Cheer up, Tom! What's the matter? You're not ill. Rouse up." "Me die, master," said Tom. "Not you," I said. "Come! Cheer up, and I'll try to get you out of this."