Dr. O’Grady recognized that Patsy could not accomplish the impossible. He gave up reading about anarchists, and asked Mr. Red for a pack of cards. The request, a reasonable one, was refused, and Dr. O’Grady snubbed for making it. Mr. Red disapproved of card-playing on principle. He said that games of chance were demoralizing to the human race. As a consistent anarchist he could not and would not allow them to be played in his house. Then Dr. O’Grady invented a game which could be played with coins on a table. A penny was placed at a short distance from the edge of the table and driven along by the impact of another penny flipped at it from the edge. The object was to hit the first penny as frequently as possible before it was driven over the opposite edge of the table. Patsy displayed a great aptitude for the game. After an hour’s play he was fairly expert. Before the end of the afternoon he had won ninepence from Dr. O’Grady. He practised assiduously next morning while the doctor read anarchist books. During the afternoon and evening he won, to his great delight, sums which amounted altogether to one-and-sevenpence. He did not whistle while he practised or played. In order to concentrate his whole energy on the game he was obliged to keep his mouth wide open. A game was in full swing on the third afternoon of Patsy’s captivity when the key turned in the lock and the door of the room was flung open. “Now what,” said Dr. O’Grady, “can the Emperor possibly want with us at this hour of the day? It’s not tea-time.” Mr. Dick, clad only in his grey flannel shirt, walked in. “Hallo!” said Dr. O’Grady, “are you an anti-military anarchist getting into training for the simple life? Or are you a new recruit undergoing the ceremony of initiation into the brotherhood? Or is it nothing but the heat of the day?” Mr. Red and the bearded anarchist dragged Mr. Sanders into the room and deposited him, still bound, on the floor. “Oh,” said the doctor, “another captive! Good. But don’t overdo the thing, Emperor. You can’t you know, go on storing up men in this way without attracting public attention. Patsy Devlin and I are all right, of course. We’re not important people. Nobody misses us in the least. But that man on the floor looks to me like a commercial traveller, and if he happens to belong to any English firm, a search will sooner or later be made for him.” “We are Members of Parliament,” said Mr. Dick. “You don’t look as if you were,” said the doctor. “Does he, Patsy?” “Be damn, but he does not! I’ve seen some queer fellows made members of Parliament in my day. There was one time I was very near going in for it myself; but I never heard tell of e’er a one yet but owned a pair of breeches--to start with, anyway.” “You hear what Patsy Devlin says,” said the doctor. “He quite agrees with me that you don’t look like a Member of Parliament.”