The process termed by Chalks ‘working the growler’ was of ancient institution in the Cafe des Souris; and I believe it is not unknown in other seats of learning—­a custom handed down from generation to generation of students, which, like politeness, costing little, yields generous returns.  Should a casual wayfarer, happening amongst us, so far transgress the usages of good society as to volunteer a contribution to our talk, without the preliminary of an introduction, it was the rule instantly to require him to offer the company refreshments; and, I am sorry to have to add, not infrequently, being thirsty, and possessing a lively appreciation of the value of our own money, we would, by a marked affability of bearing, by smiles, nods, glances of sympathetic understanding, or what not, designedly encourage such an one to address us, and so render himself liable to our impost.

‘If we don’t,’ continued Chalks, ’it will be to fly in the face of Providence.  The man is simply bursting to fire his mouth off.  He’s had something to say swelling in him for the last half-hour.  It will be an act of Christian mercy to let him say it.  And for myself, I confess I’m rather dry.’

Chalks doubtless argued from the eager eye with which the man regarded us; from the uneasy way in which he held his seat, shifting in it, and edging in our direction; and from the tentative manner in which he occasionally coughed.

Now, persuaded by the American, we one by one fell silent, to give our victim his opportunity; whilst those nearest to him baited the trap by looking enquiringly at his face.

It was all he needed.

‘I beg your pardon,’ he began, with no symptom of diffidence, ’but I too was at the Vernissage to-day, and some of your comments upon it have surprised me.’  He spoke with a staccato north-country accent, in a chirpy, querulous little voice; and each syllable seemed to chop the air, like a blow from a small hatchet.  ’Am I to take it that you are serious when you condemn Bouguereau’s great picture as a croute? Croute, if I mistake not, is equivalent to the English daub?’

Our one-armed waiter, Pierre, had but awaited this crisis to come forward and receive our orders.  When they were delivered Chalks courteously explained the situation to the neophyte, adding that, as a further formality, he must make us acquainted with his name and occupation.

He accepted it in perfectly good part.  ’I’m sure I shall feel honoured if you will drink with me,’ he said, and settled the reckoning with Pierre.

‘Name?  Name?’ a dozen of us cried in scattering chorus.

’I had thought that, among so many Englishmen and Americans, some one would have recognised me,’ he replied.  ‘I am Davis Blake.’