That did not seem to follow naturally upon my observation, which was, indeed, born of idle fancy. (I know very well C.’s death eventuated long prior to the building of the stately colonnade that fronts the present baths, and that therefore the footprint is illusory.) I am growing used to a certain irrelevancy in YAHKOB’s conversation.  My German is of the date of CHARLEMAGNE, and is no more understood here than is the Greek of SOCRATES in the streets of Athens.  YAHKOB was especially told off for my service because he thoroughly understood and talked English.  He says, “Ye-es” and “Ver well.”  But when I offer a chance remark he, three times out of five, nods intelligently, bolts off and brings me something back—­a comb and brush, a newspaper, but oftenest, a hot towel.  Once, when I asked him whether there were two posts a day to London, he lugged in an arm-chair.

I get on better with WILLIAM.  WILLIAM is a rubber—­not of whist, bien entendu, but of men.  In build WILLIAM is pear-shaped, the upper part of him, where you would expect to find the stalk, broadening out into a perpetual smile.  He has lived in the Baths twenty-three years, and yet his gaiety is not eclipsed.  If he has a foible it is his belief that he thoroughly understands London and its ways.

“A ver big place,” he remarked this morning, “where dey kills de ladees.”

This reference not being immediately clear, WILLIAM assisted dull comprehension by drawing his finger across his throat, and uttering a jovial “click!” But it was only when, his eyes brimming over with fun, he said, “YAK de Reeper,” that I followed the drift of his remark.

It is gratifying to the citizen of London travelling abroad, to learn that in the mind of the foreigner the great Metropolis is primarily and chiefly associated with “JACK the Ripper” and his exploits.

“I rob you not hard,” WILLIAM incidentally remarks, pounding at your chest as if it were a parquet flooring he was polishing; “but I strong so I can break a shentleman’s ribs.”

I make due acknowledgment of the prowess, being particularly careful to refrain from expressing doubt, or even surprise.  WILLIAM, always smiling, repeats the assertion just as if I had contradicted him.  Try to change subject.

[Illustration:  “I would break hees ribs!”]

“I wonder if CHARLEMAGNE had a massage man in his suite?” I say, “and who was his Doctor?  Now if he had had Dr. BRANDIS, I believe he would have been alive at this day.  But we cannot have everything.  CHARLEMAGNE had the Iron Crown of Lombardy; we have Dr. BRANDIS.”

“Y e e s,” said WILLIAM, still gloating over his own train of thought; “eef I like I break a shentleman’s ribs.”

Sometimes WILLIAM’S smile, contracting, breaks into a whistle, horribly out of tune.  He rather fancies his musical powers, and is proud of his intimate acquaintance with the fashionable chansons current in London to-day, or as he puts it, “Vat dey shings at de Carrelton Clob.”  Then he warbles a line of the happily long-forgotten “Champagne CHARLIE,” with intervals of “Oh what a surprise!” He sings both to the same tune, and fortunately knows only two lines of one and a single line of the other.