And now, to celebrate the occasion, let us all have another glass of port and drink a toast." They hesitated and were lost, Bastin murmuring something about doing without his stout next day as a penance.

Then they both asked what was the toast, each of them, after thought, suggesting that it should be the utter confusion of the other.
I shook my head, whereon as a result of further cogitation, Bastin submitted that the Unknown would be suitable.

Bickley said that he thought this a foolish idea as everything worth knowing was already known, and what was the good of drinking to the rest?
A toast to the Truth would be better.
A notion came to me.
"Let us combine them," I said, "and drink to the Unknown Truth." So we did, though Bastin grumbled that the performance made him feel like Pilate.
"We are all Pilates in our way," I replied with a sigh.
"That is what I think every time I diagnose a case," exclaimed Bickley.
As for me I laughed and for some unknown reason felt happier than I had done for months.

Oh! if only the writer of that tourist tale of the South Sea Islands could have guessed what fruit his light-thrown seed would yield to us and to the world! I made my inquiries through a London agency which hired out yachts or sold them to the idle rich.

As I expected, there were plenty to be had, at a price, but wealthy as I was, the figure asked of the buyer of any suitable craft, staggered me.