After supper he accordingly went for his “look in,” and arriving at half-past eleven, was in time for dinner, which did not take place till half-past twelve, the court having adjourned at 12.15.  However, we spent a very pleasant evening, Toole telling the story of his going to see Hawkins in the Tichborne trial related elsewhere, and Sir Henry that of the Queen refusing once upon a time to accept a box at Drury Lane Theatre while E.T.  Smith was lessee, which made Smith so angry that he could hardly bring himself to propose her Majesty’s health at a dinner that same evening at Drury Lane.  Nothing but his loyalty prevented his resenting it in a suitable and dignified manner.  When one sovereign is affronted by another, the only thing is to consider their respective commercial values, for that, as a rule, is the test of all things in a commercial world.  But the sequel was that E.T. said, “Although me and her Majesty have had a little difference, I think on the whole I may propose the Queen!” Fool is he who neglects his Sovereign, and gets in exchange Sovereign contempt.  Such was Toole’s observation.

It was at this little entertainment that Sir Henry told the story of the banker’s clerk and the bad boy—­a true story, he said, although it may be without a moral.  The best stories, said Toole, like the best people, have no morals—­at least, none to make a song about—­any more than the best dogs have the longest tails.

A gentleman who was a customer at a certain bank was asked by a bank clerk whether a particular cheque bore his signature.

The gentleman looked at it, and said, “That is all right.”

“All right?” said the bank clerk.  “Is that really your signature, sir?”

“Certainly,” said the gentleman.

“Quite sure, sir?”

“As sure as I am of my own existence.”

The clerk looked puzzled and somewhat disconcerted, so sure was he that the signature was false.

“How can I be deceived in my own handwriting?” asked the supposed drawer of the cheque.

“Well,” said the clerk, “you will excuse me, I hope, but I have refused to pay on that signature, because I do not believe it is yours.”

“Pay!” said the customer.  “For Heaven’s sake, do not dishonour my signature.”

“I will never do that,” was the answer; “but will you look through your papers, counterfoils, bank-book, and accounts, and see if you can trace this cheque?”

The customer looked through his accounts and found no trace of it or the amount for which it was given.

At last, on examining the number of the cheque, he was convinced that the signature could not be his, because he had never had a cheque-book with that number in it.  At the same time, his astonishment was great that the clerk should know his handwriting better than he knew it himself.