“This infernal theatre, laddie. After taking my good money, dash it! At least, I got it on my face, but that has nothing to do with the principle of the thing. Corky, my boy, don’t you ever go about this world seeking for justice, because there’s no such thing under the broad vault of heaven. I had just gone out for a breather after the first act, and when I came back I found some fiend in human shape had pinched my seat. And just because I tried to lift the fellow out by the ears, a dozen hired assassins swooped down and shot me out. Me, I’ll trouble you! The injured party! Upon my Sam,” he said, heatedly, with a longing look at the closed door, “I’ve a dashed good mind to——” “I shouldn’t,” I said, soothingly. “After all, what does it matter? It’s just one of those things that are bound to happen from time to time. The man of affairs passes them off with a light laugh.” “Yes, but——” “Come and have a drink.” The suggestion made him waver. The light of battle died down in his eyes. He stood for a moment in thought. “You wouldn’t bung a brick through the window?” he queried, doubtfully. “No, no!” “Perhaps you’re right.” He linked his arm in mine and we crossed the road to where the lights of a public-house shone like heartening beacons. The crisis was over. “Corky,” said Ukridge, warily laying down his mug of beer on the counter a few moments later, lest emotion should cause him to spill any of its precious contents, “I can’t get over, I simply cannot get over the astounding fact of your being in this blighted town.” I explained my position. My presence in Llunindnno was due to the fact that the paper which occasionally made use of my services as a special writer had sent me to compose a fuller and more scholarly report than its local correspondent seemed capable of concocting of the activities of one Evan Jones, the latest of those revivalists who periodically convulse the emotions of the Welsh mining population. His last and biggest meeting was to take place next morning at eleven o’clock. “But what are you doing here?” I asked. “What am _I_ doing here?” said Ukridge. “Who, me? Why, where else would you expect me to be? Haven’t you heard?” “Heard what?” “Haven’t you seen the posters?” “What posters? I only arrived an hour ago.” “My dear old horse! Then naturally you aren’t abreast of local affairs.” He drained his mug, breathed contentedly, and led me out into the street. “Look!” He was pointing at a poster, boldly lettered in red and black, which decorated the side-wall of the Bon Ton Millinery Emporium. The street-lighting system of Llunindnno is defective, but I was able to read what it said:— ODDFELLOWS’ HALL Special Ten-Round Contest. LLOYD THOMAS (Llunindnno) _vs._ BATTLING BILLSON (Bermondsey). “Comes off to-morrow night,” said Ukridge. “And I don’t mind telling you, laddie, that I expect to make a colossal fortune.”