It was a pity that he dragged the sardonic Joe back into the affair.  Joe observed to him that for a man in regular revolver practice he was buying precious few cartridges; and so he had to lay in a stock.  Now he dared not employ these cartridges; and yet he wished to make a noise with his revolver in order to convince the neighbourhood that he was in steady practice.  Nor dare he buy blank cartridges from Joe.  It was not safe to buy blank cartridges anywhere in the Five Towns, so easily does news travel there, and so easily are reputations blown.  Hence it happened that Alderman Keats went as far as Crewe specially to buy blank cartridge, and he drowned the ball cartridge secretly in the Birches Pond.  To such lengths may a timid man be driven in order to preserve and foster the renown of being a dog of the old sort.  All kinds of persons used to hear the barking of the alderman’s revolver in his stable-yard, and the cumulative effect of these noises wore down calumny and incredulity.  And, of course, having once begun to practise, the alderman could not decently cease.  The absurd situation endured.  And a coral reef of ball cartridges might have appeared on the surface of Birches Pond had it not been for the visit (at enormous expense) of Hagentodt’s ten tigers to the Hanbridge Empire.

This visit, epoch-making in the history of music-hall enterprise in the Five Towns, coincided with the annual venison feast of a society known as Ye Ancient Corporation of Hanbridge, which society had no connection whatever with the real rate-levying corporation, but was a piece of elaborate machinery for dinner-eating.  Alderman Keats, naturally, was prominent in the affair of the venison feast.  Nobody was better fitted than he to be in the chair at such a solemnity, and in the chair he was, and therein did wonderful things.  In putting the loyal toasts he spoke for half an hour concerning the King’s diplomacy, with a reference to royal gout; which was at least unusual.  And then, when the feast was far advanced, he uprose, ignoring the toast list, and called upon the assembled company to drink to Old England and Old Port for ever, and a fig for gout!  And after this, amid a genial informality, the conversation of a knot of cronies at the Chair end of the table deviated to the noble art of self-defence, and so to revolvers.  And the alderman, jolly but still aldermanic, produced his revolver, proving that it went even with his dress-suit.

“Look here,” said one.  “Is it loaded?”

“Of course,” said the alderman.

“Ball cartridge?”

“Of course,” said the alderman.

“Well, would you mind putting it back in your pocket—­with all this wine and whisky about—­”

The alderman complied, proud.

He was limping goutily home with the Vice, at something after midnight, when, as they passed the stage-door of the Empire, both men were aware of fearsome sounds within the building.  And the stage-door was ajar.  Being personages of great importance, they entered into the interior gloom and collided with the watchman, who was rushing out.