“‘Nything t’ ’clare?” he asked, preparing to affix the sign which spelt freedom.

Percival blew his nose violently, hoping the chalk would descend to save him the necessity of answering, but it remained poised in mid-air.

“Anything to declare?” repeated the official, with emphasis.

“Er,” said Percival weakly—­“nothing that you need worry about—­only a few presents.”

“I’ll have to trouble you for your keys, then,” said the incorruptible.

Percival sighed dismally and produced them.  Suddenly he noticed Gillow declaring his baggage, and became so interested that he failed to perceive that the official was in difficulties with the lock of his bag.

“This the right key, Sir?” demanded the latter at length.

“Oh, yes,” said Percival absently.  “But perhaps the bag isn’t locked.”

The bag wasn’t.  It opened easily, and the official plunged into a welter of articles of personal use; but no parcels or dutiable goods came to light.

“P’raps you think it’s a joke, wasting my time like this,” snorted the official indignantly.  “All I can say is, it’s an infernal bad one.”

“Awf’lly sorry,” said Percival sweetly, as his eye followed Gillow, who had emerged unchallenged.  “I must have forgotten to bring the parcels I spoke about.”

Smiling cheerfully, he directed the porter to place his bag by the side of Gillow’s in a Pullman, and took his seat with an expression of complete content.

“How fares the master criminal?” asked Sparkes.

“A sympathetic friend took my troubles on his shoulders,” said Percival, “and got the parcels through with an effrontery which amazed me.  I always took him for an upright youth, too.”

“Who was it?” asked Gillow.

“You!  Didn’t you notice you took my bag by mistake?  But don’t let it weigh unduly on your conscience.  Mine’s clear anyway, and I feel that my troubles are over.”

But it was not till he got home and opened his own bag that he discovered a quantity of broken glass, a pungent odour of whisky and Cologne water, a discoloured parcel of lace and a box of sodden cigars.

“I was never meant for a smuggler,” he groaned.

* * * * *

THE BOOK OF ADVENTURE.

  Oh the glory of the trappers! 
    Oh to be as in this book,
  Chasing things in furry wrappers,
    Poking from their crevice-nook
  Loudly though they squeak and grumble,
    Squirrel fitch and Arctic cat
  (Editor: “I do not tumble;
  Will you please explain this jumble?”
    Author: “I shall come to that").

  Oh! (as I was just remarking
    When you interrupted me)
  Where the marabouts are barking
    It is there that I would be;
  Where on promontories stony
    All the loud Atlantic raves
  And the, if not very tony,
  Still quite practical seal coney
    Plunges in the wind-whipt waves.