Punch, or the London Charivari

ers like washing-up when Henry came in. Only a short time before we should have greeted each other cordially in a spirit of camaraderie and affection. Now our conversation was something like this:--

_Henry (gruffly)._ Hullo, no signs of dinner yet! Do you know the time?

_Me (snappily)._ You needn't be so impatient. I expect you've gorged yourself on a good lunch in town. Anyhow it won't take long to get dinner, as we are having tinned soup and eggs.

_Henry._ Oh, damn eggs. I'm sick of the sight of 'em.

You can see for yourself how unrestrained we were getting. The thin veneer of civilisation (thinner than ever when Henry is hungry) was fast wearing into holes.

The subsequent meal was eaten in silence. The hay-fever from which I am prone to suffer at all seasons of the year was particularly persistent that evening. A rising irritability engendered by leathery eggs and fostered by Henry's face was taking possession of me. Quite suddenly I discovered that the way he held his knife annoyed