“He has the most remarkable memory I ever met.  He can tell to a day when any notable event occurred.”

“Pshaw!” answered his companion, who, by the way, was known to pride himself upon his own memory for dates, “I can state where I went and what I did on every day in the year.  That may not embrace what you call ‘notable events,’ but the memory required is all the more remarkable, is it not?”

“Pooh!” was his friend’s provoking reply, “you are bluffing, Ben; I will never believe that.”

Mr. T-, who had passed by this time into that stage of intoxication which makes persistence in an assertion a duty as well as a pleasure, threw back his head, and as the wreaths of smoke rose in airy spirals from his lips, reiterated his statement, and offered to submit to any test of his vaunted powers which the other might dictate.

“You keep a diary—­” began Joe.

“Which at the present moment is at home,” completed the other.

“Will you allow me to refer to it tomorrow, if I am suspicious of the accuracy of your recollections?”

“Undoubtedly,” returned the other.

“Very well, then, I will wager you a cool fifty that you cannot tell where you were between the hours of ten and eleven on a certain night which I will name.”

“Done!” cried the other, bringing out his pocket-book and laying it on the table before him.

Joe followed his example and then summoned me.

“Write a date down here,” he commanded, pushing a piece of paper towards me, with a look keen as the flash of a blade.  “Any date, man,” he added, as I appeared to hesitate in the embarrassment I thought natural under the circumstances.  “Put down day, month, and year, only don’t go too far back; not farther than two years.”

Smiling with the air of a flunkey admitted to the sports of his superiors, I wrote a line and laid it before Mr. Smithers, who at once pushed it with a careless gesture towards his companion.  You can of course guess the date I made use of:  July 17, 19—.  Mr. T—­, who had evidently looked upon this matter as mere play, flushed scarlet as he read these words, and for one instant looked as if he had rather fly the house than answer Joe Smithers’s nonchalant glance of inquiry.

“I have given my word and will keep it,” he said at last, but with a look in my direction that sent me reluctantly back to my retreat.  “I don’t suppose you want names,” he went on; “that is, if anything I have to tell is of a delicate nature?”

“Oh, no,” answered the other, “only facts and places.”

“I don’t think places are necessary either,” he returned.  “I will tell you what I did and that must serve you.  I did not promise to give number and street.”

“Well, well,” Joe exclaimed; “earn your fifty, that is all.  Show that you remember where you were on the night of”—­and with an admirable show of indifference he pretended to consult the paper between them—­“the seventeenth of July, two years ago, and I shall be satisfied.”