“’E ’as ’ad an unfortunate accident,” he declared, nervousness beginning to sweep away his aitches wholesale. “On ’is way ’ere to this ’all ’e was unfortunately run into by a truck, sustaining bruises and contusions which render ’im unfortunately unable to appear before you to-night. I beg to announce that ’is place will be taken by Professor Devine, who will render ’is marvellous imitations of various birds and familiar animals. Ladies and gentlemen,” concluded the ambassador, stepping nimbly off the stage, “I thank you one and all.” The curtain rose and a dapper individual with a waxed moustache skipped on. “Ladies and gentlemen, my first imitation will be of that well-known songster, the common thrust—better known to some of you per’aps as the throstle. And in connection with my performance I wish to state that I ’ave nothing whatsoever in my mouth. The effects which I produce——” I withdrew, and two-thirds of the audience started to do the same. From behind us, dying away as the doors closed, came the plaintive note of the common thrush feebly competing with that other and sterner bird which haunts those places of entertainment where audiences are critical and swift to take offence. Out in the street a knot of Shoreditch’s younger set were hanging on the lips of an excited orator in a battered hat and trousers which had been made for a larger man. Some stirring tale which he was telling held them spell-bound. Words came raggedly through the noise of the traffic. “——like this. Then ’e ’its ’im another like that. Then they start—on the side of the jor——” “Pass along, there,” interrupted an official voice. “Come on, there, pass along.” The crowd thinned and resolved itself into its elements. I found myself moving down the street in company with the wearer of the battered hat. Though we had not been formally introduced, he seemed to consider me a suitable recipient for his tale. He enrolled me at once as a nucleus for a fresh audience. “’E comes up, this bloke does, just as Tod is goin’ in at the stage-door——” “Tod?” I queried. “Tod Bingham. ’E comes up just as ’e’s goin’ in at the stage-door, and ’e says ‘’Ere!’ and Tod says ‘Yus?’ and this bloke ’e says ‘Put ’em up!’ and Tod says ‘Put wot up?’ and this bloke says ‘Yer ’ands,’ and Tod says ‘Wot, me?’—sort of surprised. An’ the next minute they’re fightin’ all over the shop.” “But surely Tod Bingham was run over by a truck?” The man in the battered hat surveyed me with the mingled scorn and resentment which the devout bestow on those of heretical views. “Truck! ’E wasn’t run over by no truck. Wot mikes yer fink ’e was run over by a truck? Wot ’ud ’e be doin’ bein’ run over by a truck? ’E ’ad it put across ’im by this red-’eaded bloke, same as I’m tellin’ yer.” A great light shone upon me. “Red-headed?” I cried. “Yus.” “A big man?” “Yus.” “And he put it across Tod Bingham?”