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“Well, now, my good friends,” said Corney, “if we have all finished, and if you are all agreeable, I shall be pleased to present to you my little show.”

The servants cheered. The piano was dispensed with. Corney contrived to amuse his audience very well for half-an-hour without it. At ten o’clock came down a message: Would Mr. Corney Grain come up into the drawing-room. Corney went. The company in the drawing- room were waiting, seated.

“We are ready, Mr. Grain,” remarked the hostess.

“Ready for what?” demanded Corney.

“For your entertainment,” answered the hostess.

“But I have given it already,” explained Corney; “and my engagement was for one performance only.”

“Given it! Where? When?”

“An hour ago, downstairs.”

“But this is nonsense,” exclaimed the hostess.

“It seemed to me somewhat unusual,” Corney replied; “but it has always been my privilege to dine with the company I am asked to entertain. I took it you had arranged a little treat for the servants.”

And Corney left to catch his train.

Another entertainer told me the following story, although a joke against himself. He and Corney Grain were sharing a cottage on the river. A man called early one morning to discuss affairs, and was talking to Corney in the parlour, which was on the ground floor. The window was open. The other entertainer–the man who told me the story–was dressing in the room above. Thinking he recognised the voice of the visitor below, he leant out of his bedroom window to hear better. He leant too far, and dived head foremost into a bed of flowers, his bare legs–and only his bare legs–showing through the open window of the parlour.

“Good gracious!” exclaimed the visitor, turning at the moment and seeing a pair of wriggling legs above the window sill; “who’s that?”

Corney fixed his eyeglass and strolled to the window.

“Oh, it’s only What’s-his-name,” he explained. “Wonderful spirits. Can be funny in the morning.”