I came across Crawshaw in the road unexpectedly. I would rather meet
a rate-collector than Crawshaw. He is the most dangerous beggar
in England. He could induce a blind crossing-sweeper to guarantee
half-a-crown a week to a Belgian Relief Fund. If only he were
Chancellor of the Exchequer people would almost like paying income-tax.
"Good morning, old man," I said, trying to dash past him.
"Just the man I was looking for," said Crawshaw. "I want you."
"My dear fellow," I began, "I can't possibly afford----"
"I don't want your money," interrupted Crawshaw.
"Well, you've got all my spare blankets, underclothing and old novels."
"I want you to come to a little dinner I'm giving on Monday. Just a
bachelor festival."
I looked at him suspiciously. "You intend to entice me into your house
and produce a subscription list."
"My dear fellow, I'll do nothing of the sort. It's just that I want a
few of my friends to have a good time. Look in about 7.30. You'll come?
That's good."