I met Renniker the other day at the club.

He is a man who knows everything--from the method of trimming a puppy's tail for a dog-show, without being disqualified, to the innermost workings of the mind of every European potentate.

If I want information on any subject under heaven I ask Renniker.
"Can you tell me," said I, "the most God-forsaken spot in England ?" Renniker, being in a flippant mood, mentioned a fashionable watering-place on the South Coast.

I pleaded the seriousness of my question.
"What I want," said I, "is a place compared to which Golgotha, Aceldama, the Dead Sea, the Valley of Jehoshaphat, and the Bowery would be leafy bowers of uninterrupted delight." "Then Murglebed-on-Sea is what you're looking for," said Renniker.

"Are you going there at once ?" "At once," said I.
"It's November," said he, "and a villainous November at that; so you'll see Murglebed-on-Sea in the fine flower of its desolation." I thanked him, went home, and summoned my excellent man Rogers.
"Rogers," said I, "I am going to the seaside.