"Hullo," he said, when I told him my name. "So it's you, is it, Cumberledge?" He glanced at my card. "St. Nathaniel's Hospital! What rot! Why, blow me tight if you haven't turned sawbones!" "That is my profession," I answered, unashamed. "And you?" "Oh, I don't have any luck, you know, old man. They turned me out of Oxford because I had too much sense of humour for the authorities there--beastly set of old fogeys! Objected to my 'chucking' oyster shells at the tutors' windows--good old English custom, fast becoming obsolete. Then I crammed for the Army. But, bless your heart, a GENTLEMAN has no chance for the Army nowadays; a pack of blooming cads, with what they call 'intellect,' read up for the exams, and don't give US a look-in; I call it sheer piffle. Then the Guv'nor set me on electrical engineering--electrical engineering's played out. I put no stock in it; besides, it's such beastly fag; and then, you get your hands dirty. So now I'm reading for the Bar; and if only my coach can put me up to tips enough to dodge the examiners, I expect to be called some time next summer." "And when you have failed for everything?" I inquired, just to test his sense of humour. He swallowed it like a roach. "Oh, when I've failed for everything, I shall stick up to the Guv'nor. Hang it all, a GENTLEMAN can't be expected to earn his own livelihood. England's going to the dogs, that's where it is; no snug little sinecures left for chaps like you and me; all this beastly competition. And no respect for the feelings of gentlemen, either! Why, would you believe it, Cumberground--we used to call you Cumberground at Charterhouse, I remember, or was it Fig Tree?--I happened to get a bit lively in the Haymarket last week, after a rattling good supper, and the chap at the police court--old cove with a squint--positively proposed to send me to prison, WITHOUT THE OPTION OF A FINE!--I'll trouble you for that--send ME to prison just--for knocking down a common brute of a bobby. There's no mistake about it; England's NOT a country now for a gentleman to live in." "Then why not mark your sense of the fact by leaving it?" I inquired, with a smile. He shook his head. "What? Emigrate? No, thank you! I'm not taking any. None of your colonies for ME, IF you please. I shall stick to the old ship. I'm too much attached to the Empire." "And yet imperialists," I said, "generally gush over the colonies--the Empire on which the sun never sets." "The Empire in Leicester Squire!" he responded, gazing at me with unspoken contempt. "Have a whisky-and-soda, old chap? What, no? 'Never drink between meals?' Well, you DO surprise me! I suppose that comes of being a sawbones, don't it?"