Ukridge and I exchanged weary glances. It seemed as if Fate was going out of its way to have sport with us. What was the good of a dog biting Victor Beamish? What was the good of a hundred dogs biting Victor Beamish? A dog-bitten Victor Beamish had no market value whatever. “You know that fierce brute that belongs to my landlady,” said Teddy Weeks. “The one that always dashes out into the area and barks at people who come to the front door.” I remembered. A large mongrel with wild eyes and flashing fangs, badly in need of a haircut. I had encountered it once in the street, when visiting Ukridge, and only the presence of the latter, who knew it well and to whom all dogs were as brothers, had saved me from the doom of Victor Beamish. “Somehow or other he got into my bedroom this evening. He was waiting there when I came home. I had brought Beamish back with me, and the animal pinned him by the leg the moment I opened the door.” “Why didn’t he pin you?” asked Ukridge, aggrieved. “What I can’t make out,” said Teddy Weeks, “is how on earth the brute came to be in my room. Somebody must have put him there. The whole thing is very mysterious.” “Why didn’t he pin you?” demanded Ukridge again. “Oh, I managed to climb on to the top of the wardrobe while he was biting Beamish,” said Teddy Weeks. “And then the landlady came and took him away. But I can’t stop here talking. I must go and get that doctor.” We gazed after him in silence as he tripped down the street. We noted the careful manner in which he paused at the corner to eye the traffic before crossing the road, the wary way in which he drew back to allow a truck to rattle past. “You heard that?” said Ukridge, tensely. “He climbed on to the top of the wardrobe!” “Yes.” “And you saw the way he dodged that excellent truck?” “Yes.” “Something’s got to be done,” said Ukridge, firmly. “The man has got to be awakened to a sense of his responsibilities.” Next day a deputation waited on Teddy Weeks. Ukridge was our spokesman, and he came to the point with admirable directness. “How about it?” asked Ukridge. “How about what?” replied Teddy Weeks, nervously, avoiding his accusing eye. “When do we get action?” “Oh, you mean that accident business?” “Yes.” “I’ve been thinking about that,” said Teddy Weeks. Ukridge drew the mackintosh which he wore indoors and out of doors and in all weathers more closely around him. There was in the action something suggestive of a member of the Roman Senate about to denounce an enemy of the State. In just such a manner must Cicero have swished his toga as he took a deep breath preparatory to assailing Clodius. He toyed for a moment with the ginger-beer wire which held his pince-nez in place, and endeavoured without success to button his collar at the back. In moments of emotion Ukridge’s collar always took on a sort of temperamental jumpiness which no stud could restrain. “And about time you _were_ thinking about it,” he boomed, sternly.