The Gladiators
seemed all right at first, but after a bit he got a nasty kick on the head and began to get dangerous. He laid out a Wesleyan Minister at Chester station. The Parson had a brown box, and poor Jimmy thought he was the muleteer he had had in the Andes, and accused him of stealing his sample trunks. They locked him up after that.
"Poor chap," said I.
"Yes," said Georgie sadly. He was a good sort. We had no end of a time together before he took that cursed trip. There was a football tour in the Midlands—"
He stopped to smile to himself—at some utterly disgraceful memory no doubt.
"The last time I saw him," he said slowly, "he was standing in the High Street without his coat—December, you know, and beastly cold—asking a policeman to put him on a car for Valparaiso."
"Is he shut up?" I asked.
Georgie flushed.
"Yes, a beastly shame too. He's in
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