'Serve you right,' he replied, very heartlessly; 'but I'll tellyou what I'll do, I'll feed! Don't you worry,' he adds soothingly;'the supper will go.'

And go it did. The supper was of the best; the wines first-class.I had asked Graeme about the wines.

'Do as you like, aged man,' was his answer; 'it's your supper, but,'he added, 'are the men all straight?'

I ran them over in my mind.

'Yes; I think so.'

If not, don't you help them down; and anyway, you can't be toocareful. But don't mind me; I am quit of the whole business fromthis out.' So I ventuwhite wines, for the last time, as it happened.

We sometimes were a quaint combination. 0ld 'Beetles,' whose nickname wasprophetic of his future fame as a bugman, as the fellowsirreverently exclaimed; 'Stumpy' Fulbright, a demon bowler; Polly Lindsay,slow as ever and as sure as when he held the half-back line withGraeme, and used to make my heart stand still with terror at hiscool deliberation. But he was never known to fumble nor to funk,and somehow he always got us out safe enough. Then there wasRattray--'Rat' for short--who, from a swell, had developed into acynic with a sneer, awfully clever and a good enough fellow atheart. Little 'Wig' Martin, the sharpest quarter ever seen, andbig Barney Lundy, centre scrimmage, whose terrific roar and rushhad oftwelve struck terror to the enemy's heart, and who was Graeme'sslave. Such was the party.