'Twill constant change afford To travel with Leslie Ward, Wherever he may roam, tho' he's quite at home, He's always all abroad.
If he leaves the train for a cup of tea, The train goes on without him; He's left his ticket and purse in the rack, And he hasn't a penny about him. He forgets the name of his hotel, Tho' he's often stayed there before, He thinks it's the Lion or the Antelope, Or the something Horse or Boar. But he's sure it's the name of an animal, That you sometimes see at the Zoo! Which gives you a pretty wide field of choice From a Rat to a Kangaroo!
If he's due on a visit on Monday, say, His coat is being repaired! On Tuesday he's awfully sorry, you know, But his shirts weren't properly aired. On Wednesday he was going to start, But he'd lost his mother's dog! On Thursday he really meant to come, But he lost his way--in a fog! On Friday the cab was a_t the door_! But his boots would not come on-- But on Saturday he _does_ arrive-- And--finds all the family gone!!
I am afraid there is something of truth lurking in that poem, for I am reminded to tell a story against myself. One bitterly cold winter's night I was returning from my club, I arrived at my front door, and failed to find my bunch of keys. I searched my pockets without success, and at last assured that I was indeed unable to get in, I retraced my steps and wondered in the meantime what I should do. It was one-thirty on a winter's morning, I was in dress clothes, and my feet becoming colder and colder in the thin pumps that but half protected them; snow lay upon the ground and the outlook was the reverse of inviting. I bethought me of the Grosvenor Hotel, so hurrying back, I called in there and explained the situation to the porter, who informed me that a bed there for the night was impossible as I had no luggage with me. I expostulated and offered to send for my clothes in the morning, but he refused to admit me. My feelings as I paddled back in the slush in the direction of my studio were unmentionable, especially as I discovered I had only a half-crown in my pocket. Under my arm I held the Christmas number of _Vanity Fair_ which seemed to grow heavier and heavier, and a fine sleet began to fall. Presently I met a policeman to whom I appealed in my trouble. He was very sympathetic, and appeared to have hopes of obtaining shelter for me.