His frock coat was flying open, his waistcoat
unbuttoned at the top, and his hat (a top hat this time)
jammed on the back of his head, with his bristling hair
spurting out in front of it. In every way, save that he
wore a collar, he was the same Cullingworth as ever. He
gave a roar of recognition when he saw me, bustled me out
of my carriage, seized my carpet bag, or grip-sack as you
used to call it, and a minute later we were striding
along together through the streets.
I was, as you may imagine, all in a tingle to know
what it was that he wanted with me. However, as he made
no allusion to it, I did not care to ask, and, during our
longish walk, we talked about indifferent matters. It
was football first, I remember, whether Richmond had a
chance against Blackheath, and the way in which the new
passing game was shredding the old scrimmages. Then he
got on to inventions, and became so excited that he had
to give me back my bag in order that he might be able to
slap all his points home with his fist upon his palm.
I can see him now stopping, with his face leaning forward
and his yellow tusks gleaming in the lamplight.
"My dear Munro" (this was the style of the thing),
"why was armour abandoned, eh? What! I'll tell you why.
It was because the weight of metal that would protect a
man who was standing up was more than he could carry.
But battles are not fought now-a-days by men who are
standing up.
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