“He’s got a funnier face than that man there,” he said, pointing to Archie.

“Hush, darling!”

“But he has.  Much funnier.”

In a way it was a sort of compliment, but Archie felt embarrassed.  He withdrew coyly into the cushioned recess.  Presently the Sausage Chappie returned, attended to the needs of the woman and the child, and came over to Archie.  His homely face was beaming.

“Say, I had a big night last night,” he said, leaning on the table.

“Yes?” said Archie.  “Party or something?”

“No, I mean I suddenly began to remember things.  Something seems to have happened to the works.”

Archie sat up excitedly.  This was great news.

“No, really?  My dear old lad, this is absolutely topping.  This is priceless.”

“Yessir!  First thing I remembered was that I was born at Springfield, Ohio.  It was like a mist starting to life.  Springfield, Ohio.  That was it.  It suddenly came back to me.”

“Splendid!  Anything else?”

“Yessir!  Just before I went to sleep I remembered my name as well.”

Archie was stirred to his depths.

“Why, the thing’s a walk-over!” he exclaimed.  “Now you’ve once got started, nothing can stop you.  What is your name?”

“Why, it’s—­That’s funny!  It’s gone again.  I have an idea it began with an S. What was it?  Skeffington?  Skillington?”

“Sanderson?”

“No; I’ll get it in a moment.  Cunningham?  Carrington?  Wilberforce?  Debenham?”

“Dennison?” suggested Archie, helpfully.—­“No, no, no.  It’s on the tip of my tongue.  Barrington?  Montgomery?  Hepplethwaite?  I’ve got it!  Smith!”

“By Jove!  Really?”

“Certain of it.”

“What’s the first name?”

An anxious expression came into the man’s eyes.  He hesitated.  He lowered his voice.

“I have a horrible feeling that it’s Lancelot!”

“Good God!” said Archie.

“It couldn’t really be that, could it?”

Archie looked grave.  He hated to give pain, but he felt he must be honest.

“It might,” he said.  “People give their children all sorts of rummy names.  My second name’s Tracy.  And I have a pal in England who was christened Cuthbert de la Hay Horace.  Fortunately everyone calls him Stinker.”

The head-waiter began to drift up like a bank of fog, and the Sausage Chappie returned to his professional duties.  When he came back, he was beaming again.

“Something else I remembered,” he said, removing the cover.  “I’m married!”

“Good Lord!”

“At least I was before the war.  She had blue eyes and brown hair and a Pekingese dog.”

“What was her name?”

“I don’t know.”