“Dying by inches,” was the unfeeling rejoinder of a bystander, followed by the cruel suggestion, “Why don’t you hang him?” Marwood gave him a reproachful glance. “No, no. Hang a man, but my dear old dog--never!” Poor Marwood had a good heart, and the story of the dog was so affecting that the interview abruptly terminated. Berry, the executioner, was paid for a sitting, and seemed by no means averse from having his figure placed in the Chamber of Horrors, where it may now be seen. He rather appeared to be proud of his official calling. CHAPTER XLIV Anecdotal--“Which is Peace?”--Mark Twain at Tussaud’s--Dr. Grace’s story--Mr. Kipling’s model--Filial pride--Bishop Jackson’s sally--German inaccuracy. As I proceed with my narrative, having already travelled through the memories of many years, there seem to crowd at my heels, so to speak, a great collection of humorous and curious incidents which, although unrelated to each other, are yet worthy of a place in this chronicle. They come of their own free will readily enough when I want to engage in serious work, but no amount of persuasion will lure them from their lurking-places when I want to recount them. As I fancy my friends like my short stories as well as any, I propose to introduce a few trivialities that are sufficiently obliging to present themselves as I write. In the Berlin Treaty days a staunchly Conservative borough was celebrating the event, and among other decorations was a large transparency showing Lord Beaconsfield and Lord Salisbury standing together, with the motto “Peace with Honour” beneath them. An old woman went up to the borough M.P. and asked: “If you please, sir, will you tell me which is Peace?” Charles Peace was the man of the moment just then. [Illustration: CHARLES PEACE Model of the notorious criminal in convict garb.] Mark Twain, according to his cousin, Katherine Clemens, once visited Madame Tussaud’s. He stood a long while, says his cousin, in contemplation of an especially clever piece of work, and was aroused by a sudden stab of pain in his side. Turning quickly, he found himself face to face with a dumb-founded British matron with her parasol still pointed at him. “O lor’, it’s alive!” she exclaimed, and beat a hasty retreat. The best known of all cricketers, Dr. W. G. Grace, has long enjoyed a well-earned place of prominence in the Exhibition, and even to-day, when the great master of the bat and the ball is no longer with us, his portrait continues to attract more than an average share of attention. Dr. Grace was very fond of telling the following story about a trusted old servant of his whom he treated on one occasion to a trip to London. On her return he asked her what it was that pleased her most among the sights of the Metropolis. “Oh, sir, Madame Tussaud’s was beautiful,” replied Susan. “Then you must have seen me there?” said her master. “No, that I did not, sir.”