His name is John Sidney Howard, and he is a member of my club in London. I came in for dinner that night at about eight o'clock, tired after a long day of conferences about my aspect of the war. He was just entering the club ahead of me, a tall and rather emaciated man of about seventy, a little unsteady on his feet. He tripped over the doormat as he went in and stumbled forward; the hall porter jumped out and caught him by the elbow.
He peered down at the mat and poked it with his umbrella. Getting old, I suppose. The man smiled. The old man said, "Well, speak to him again and go on speaking till he has it put right. One of these days you'll have me falling dead at your feet.
You wouldn't like that to happen--eh? Not the sort of thing one wants to see happen in a club. I don't want to die on a doormat. And I don't want to die in a lavatory, either. Remember the time that Colonel Macpherson died in the lavatory, Peters? Then he said, "Well, I don't want to die that way either. See he gets that mat put right. Tell him I said so. The old man moved away. I had been waiting behind him while all this was going on because the porter had my letters.
He gave them to me at the wicket, and I looked them through. The porter did not smile. Many of the gentlemen talk in that way as they get on. Howard has been a member here for a great many years. The man said, "He has been abroad for the last few months, I think, sir. But he seems to have aged a great deal since he came back.
Getting rather frail now, I'm afraid. I went in to the club, slung my gasmask on to a peg, unbuckled my revolver belt and hung it up, and crowned the lot with my cap. I strolled over to the tape and studied the latest news. It was neither good nor bad.
