III.—the Secretary of the Tramping Club.

He was somewhat roughly attired when I met him—indeed one might go so far as to say, exceedingly roughly dressed in an old grey shirt open at the neck, a pair of repulsive looking trousers, once navy blue, but now rapidly going the colour of old copper, and an old coat very much the worse for wear. On his feet were a pair of the biggest boots I had seen for many a long year (size 12-13 at a guess); on his back a large green bag arrangement with an axe sticking out of one pocket and a coil of rope out of the other. He was quite unashamed of his inelegant sartorial garb. In fact he was apparently unaware that his clothes would put many a hardened navvy to shame; he was wholly cheerful and radiating unlimited amounts of be bonhomie and good fellowship.

I explained to him my purpose. Would he grant "Spike" an interview? Yes, surely. If, that is, it would be of any interest, he added, with a touch of characteristic modesty.

We were soon seated in front of a cosy fire with tea things handy. The tramper's swag and boots were pitched into the corner, and while we browsed and sluiced, he told me of his week-end adventures—for apparently, when I met him he was just returning from a two days' tramp. As soon as tea was over I got out my pencil and notebook.

"I understand you have been successful as a tramper?" was my first query.

"Oh, a little success has come my way," he answered with a modest blush. "I occasionally lead the Tramping Club for a slight jaunt of thirty or forty miles or so. My greatest successes, however, have been my record ascents of Mt. Victoria, the Wireless Hill and up to V.U.C. when late for a lecture. You see the notches on this axe handle?" he said dragging the object from his swag. "Each page 13 of those notches represent a successful climb of 500 feet or more. The first is for Mt. Victoria; the second, the Wireless; the third—er-er—I forget the rest but there you are."

After expressing my admiration for his skill and indomitable courage, I interrogated him again. "Could you give me any indication of your hobbies or amusements?"

Again that modest blush suffused his cheek.

"Once upon a time I did a little harrier running," he replied. "After that I took up marbles, then ludo and now it is snakes and ladders and ping pong. When I want a little excitement I go to the pictures. Now I assure you," he went on, "there are some batty people up at V.U.C. who will go to such lengths as to imagine that there is an art of the cinema. None of that highbrow stuff for me though. I like the good meaty films; plenty of stabbing and red blood flowing and fair damsels and husky he-men. You see," he added apologetically, "it is so thrilling to see such people after long contact with highbrows at V.U.C. The star I like best is Ruddy Valentino. You know that picture where he rushes into a Chinese restaurant, shoots two Chinamen, kicks a third in the stomach and punches the fourth on the chin and then—"

"Quite, quite," I interrupted, "I know that one well. But tell me what you—"

This time it was my turn to break off, for the great man was looking at me closely, watching my every movement, and making notes in a small black book.

"Ever been psycho-analysed?" he flung at me. I answered in the negative.

"Or been mentally tested?" again I answered no.

"Or been behaviouristically examined?" I shook my head.

"Or visited a clinic for mental cases?" I shook my head more vigorously still.

"Then it's time you came with me up to the Psychological laboratory," he said with an air of pleasant anticipation, very much like a professional torturer beginning to gloat over his victim ......

I threw a glance at the open door. We both raced across the room for it. I got there first, tore straight through, down three flights of stairs and into the open air. Behind me echoed that peculiarly malevolent snarl of a psychologist cheated of his prey ...