You see, here, worked out admirably in practice, was the rural side
of that very landlordism which I had been denouncing up and down the
East-End. The difference was plain enough, of course; but when you
worked down to principle, it became for me a pretty delicate
difference to explain. I was pledged, however, to return to London
after Christmas and run (as Jimmy Collingwood put it) for those
Bethnal Green Stakes: and in due time--that's to say, about the
middle of January--up I came.
I won't bore you with my political campaign. One day in the middle
of it Jimmy said, "To-night's a night off and we're dining with Jack
Foe down in Chelsea. Eight o'clock: no theatre afterwards: 'no band,
no promenade, no nozzing.' We've arranged between us to give your
poor tired brain a rest."
"When you do happen to be thoughtful," said I "you might give me a
little longer warning. As it is, I made a half-promise yesterday, to
speak for that man of ours, Farrell, across the water."
"No, you don't," said Jimmy. "Who's Farrell? Friend of yours?"
"Tottenham Court Road," I said.
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