"Have you ever heard him?"
"Heaven forbid!" said I in my pride.
"Then come. He's speaking in the Hall of the Lambeth Biblical Society."
I was tempted, as I wanted company. In spite of my high resolve to
out-Ishmael Ishmael, I could not kill a highly developed gregarious
instinct. I also wanted a text for an article. But I wanted my dinner
still more. Campion condemned the idea of dinner.
"You can have a cold supper," he roared, "like the rest of us."
I yielded. Campion dragged me helpless to a tram at the top of Vauxhall
Bridge Road.
"It will do Your Mightiness good to mingle with the proletariat," he
grinned.
I did not tell him that I had been mingling with it in this manner
for some time past or that I repudiated the suggestion of its benign
influence. I entered the tram meekly. As soon as we were seated, he
began:
"I bet you won't guess what I've done with your thousand pounds. I'll
give you a million guesses."
As I am a poor conjecturer, I put on a blank expression and shook my
head.
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