The Club of Queer Trades
salvation of a fellow-creature, Basil Grant had gone mad.
"Your whiskers," he cried, advancing with blazing eyes. "Give me your whiskers. And your bald head."
The old vicar naturally retreated a step or two. I stepped between.
"Sit down, Basil," I implored, "you're a little excited. Finish your wine."
"Whiskers," he answered, sternly, "whiskers."
And with that he made a dash at the old gentleman, who made a dash for the door, but was intercepted. And then, before I knew where I was, the quiet room was turned into something between a pantomime and a pandemonium by those two. Chairs were flung over with a crash, tables were vaulted with a noise like thunder, screens were smashed, crockery scattered in smithereens, and still Basil Grant bounded and bellowed after the Reverend Ellis Shorter.
And now I began to perceive something else, which added the last half-witted touch to my mystification. The Reverend Ellis Shorter,
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