In boarding trains his instincts are
  To “let ’em first get off the car,”
  Then “hurry up” himself to enter,
  And “pass along right down the centre.”

  Though nigh his destination be
  No selfish “door-obstructor” he: 
  Rather than bear such imputation
  He’ll travel on beyond his station.

  His unexceptionable ways
  E’en liftmen have been known to praise—­
  A folk censorious and, as such,
  Not given to praising over-much.

  Small need have they to shout a grim
  “No smoking in the lift” at him,
  Or ask if he’s the only one
  For whom the lift is being run.

  Adolphus Minns, who lives at Kew,
  Does all that people ought to do—­
  Retires to bed before eleven,
  Is up and shaved by half-past seven—­
  And, when he dies, he’ll go to Heaven.

  Perhaps he’s gone; I’ve never met
  His like at Kew or elsewhere yet.

* * * * *

THE DISSIMULATION OF SUZANNE.

The telephone bell rang just as I was beginning breakfast.

“What is your number, please?” asked an imperious voice.

In an emergency I never can remember my own number.

“Just hold on a minute while I look it up,” I begged.  Feverishly I turned over the leaves of the telephone directory and, cutting with a blunt finger the page containing the small advertisement that keeps my name before the public eye, at last found and transmitted the desired information.

“Don’t go away,” said the voice again, this time with a shade of weariness in its tone.  “Chesterminster wants you.”

I wasn’t going away, because before Suzanne left me to visit her relatives in Middleshire I had vowed that nothing would induce me to do so.  But Chesterminster wanted me.  What should that portend?

“Tell them,” I declaimed into the mouthpiece while I instinctively posed for the camera, “that I feel greatly honoured by their invitation and in other circumstances I should have been delighted to come forward as their Candidate.  The Parliamentary history of Chesterminster constitutes one of the most romantic chapters in the chronicles of England; but just now I am busy writing verses for next week’s Back Chat, so—­”

“If you will keep on talking to yourself you won’t get connected,” interrupted the voice.  “You’re thr-r-rough, Chesterminster.”

“Are you Chelsea niner-seven-double-seven?” inquired a new voice, a little more distant but not so haughty.

“No, nine I mean niner-double-seven-seven,” I replied.

“Same thing,” said the voice of Chesterminster.  “Stokehampton wants you.”

“Tell them—­” I began, but my oratory was drowned by a rapid succession of small explosions, and out of this unholy crepitation emerged a still small voice which said, “Is that you, darling?” Then I suddenly remembered that Stokehampton is Suzanne’s relatives’ nearest town of call.