distant guns. "Tono"—what's that? and deep, rich, unhurrying;—"Bun—gay!"
Then came my uncle's amazing telegram, his answer to my hostile note: "Come to me at once you are wanted three hundred a year certain tono-bungay."
"By Jove!" I cried, "of course!
"It's something——. A patent-medicine! I wonder what he wants with me?"
In his Napoleonic way my uncle had omitted to give an address. His telegram had been handed in at Farringdon Road, and after complex meditations I replied to Ponderevo, Farringdon Road, trusting to the rarity of our surname to reach him.
"Where are you?" I asked.
His reply came promptly:
"192a, Raggett Street, E.C."
The next day I took an unsanctioned holiday after the morning's lecture. I discovered my uncle in a wonderfully new silk hat—oh, a splendid hat! with a rolling brim that went beyond the common fashion. It was decidedly too big for him—that was its only fault. It was stuck on the back of his head, and he was in a white waistcoat and shirt sleeves. He welcomed me with a forgetfulness of my bitter satire and my hostile abstinence that was almost divine. His glasses fell off at the sight of me. His round inexpressive eyes shone brightly. He held out his plump short hand.
"Here we are, George! What did I tell you? Needn't whisper it now, my boy. Shout it—loud! Spread it about! Tell every one! Tono—Tono,—TONO-BUNGAY!"
Raggett Street, you must understand, was a thoroughfare over which someone had distributed large quantities of cabbage stumps and leaves. It