“Oh, absolutely.  The fact is, don’t you know, a dear old pal of mine who runs a tobacco shop on Sixth Avenue was rather in the soup.  He had backed a chappie against the champion, and the chappie was converted by one of your lectures and swore off pie at the eleventh hour.  Dashed hard luck on the poor chap, don’t you know!  And then I got the idea that our little friend here was the one to step in and save the situash, so I broached the matter to him.  And I’ll tell you one thing,” said Archie, handsomely, “I don’t know what sort of a capacity the original chappie had, but I’ll bet he wasn’t in your son’s class.  Your son has to be seen to be believed!  Absolutely!  You ought to be proud of him!” He turned in friendly fashion to Washy.  “Rummy we should meet again like this!  Never dreamed I should find you here.  And, by Jove, it’s absolutely marvellous how fit you look after yesterday.  I had a sort of idea you would be groaning on a bed of sickness and all that.”

There was a strange gurgling sound in the background.  It resembled something getting up steam.  And this, curiously enough, is precisely what it was.  The thing that was getting up steam was Mr. Lindsay McCall.

The first effect of the Washy revelations on Mr. McCall had been merely to stun him.  It was not until the arrival of Archie that he had had leisure to think; but since Archie’s entrance he had been thinking rapidly and deeply.

For many years Mr. McCall had been in a state of suppressed revolution.  He had smouldered, but had not dared to blaze.  But this startling upheaval of his fellow-sufferer, Washy, had acted upon him like a high explosive.  There was a strange gleam in his eye, a gleam of determination.  He was breathing hard.

“Washy!”

His voice had lost its deprecating mildness.  It rang strong and clear.

“Yes, pop?”

“How many pies did you eat yesterday?”

Washy considered.

“A good few.”

“How many?  Twenty?”

“More than that.  I lost count.  A good few.”

“And you feel as well as ever?”

“I feel fine.”

Mr. McCall dropped his glasses.  He glowered for a moment at the breakfast table.  His eye took in the Health Bread, the imitation coffee-pot, the cereal, the nut-butter.  Then with a swift movement he seized the cloth, jerked it forcibly, and brought the entire contents rattling and crashing to the floor.

“Lindsay!”

Mr. McCall met his wife’s eye with quiet determination.  It was plain that something had happened in the hinterland of Mr. McCall’s soul.

“Cora,” he said, resolutely, “I have come to a decision.  I’ve been letting you run things your own way a little too long in this family.  I’m going to assert myself.  For one thing, I’ve had all I want of this food-reform foolery.  Look at Washy!  Yesterday that boy seems to have consumed anything from a couple of hundredweight to a ton of pie, and he has thriven on it!  Thriven!  I don’t want to hurt your feelings, Cora, but Washington and I have drunk our last cup of anti-caffeine!  If you care to go on with the stuff, that’s your look-out.  But Washy and I are through.”