One night last winter I had been dining with GIDLING at his Club;
after dinner he proposed that we should go round to his flat for a
talk and a smoke. GIDLING, being practical, can make coffee, which is
a thing that they cannot do at GIDLING's Club, nor, indeed, at many
others. So I consented.

We had climbed painfully to the top of Parkington Chambers, and had
just got inside GIDLING's outer door, when we noticed a very marked
and curious smell. "There's something wrong about this," remarked
GIDLING, severely. I agreed with him, adding, out of a nervous
politeness, from which I suffer sometimes, that I rather liked the
smell, "Then you're an idiot," said GIDLING, who never suffers from
politeness at all. He opened the door of his sitting-room, and then we
saw at once what was the matter. The lower part of the chimney was on
fire; the fire-place was covered with glowing masses of soot which had
fallen. "HANKIN's had another nasty touch of that influenza," remarked
GIDLING. HANKIN is GIDLING's servant, and at regular intervals becomes
incapacitated for work. HANKIN himself says that it is influenza, and
speaks of "another of them relapses;" GIDLING thinks that it is as
a rule intoxication. As a matter of fact HANKIN would not be a bad
servant if his zeal was distributed over him rather more evenly. It
is always either excessive or defective. It comes out in lumps. In
neglecting to have the chimney swept HANKIN had shown defect; in the
way that he had piled up the fire he had shown excess. In subsequently
absenting himself from the flat he had shown a certain amount of
wisdom, for GIDLING was rather angry.

"Not but what I can put it all right," said GIDLING. "I'm a practical
man. Fire Brigade? I thought you'd suggest a few fire brigades. No,
not exactly. I'll show you how to stop a thing of this kind." He went