A party to them is a party, and they don't wait for anybody, which, after all, is the proper thing to do. Where's the Griffin?" demanded the Lion of Carry-on-Merry, after that intelligent creature, having acted like a verger (a habit he had probably acquired from a life-long proximity to Westminster Abbey), had shown all the dogs to their places along one side where the comfortable carpet formed a sort of aisle.

"Ha! Ha! Ha!" laughed Carry-on-Merry, "the Griffin is late."

"He's always late," grumbled the Lion, "his head's weak, and he never can remember what time a party starts."

"Here he comes," grunted Carry-on-Merry, "and, oh! my goodness, what does he look like?"

"Absolutely ludicrous as usual," said the Lion.

The Griffin presented an intensely comical appearance. Wishing to keep up the dignity of the City, he had chosen for his party-dress a scarlet Lord Mayor's robe, edged with fur, which he had folded around himself in an exceedingly ridiculous fashion.

Upon his head, as he believed it to be becoming, he had placed jauntily sideways, an immense green dunce's cap from one of the children's giant crackers, which the Griffin had pulled as he entered the doors.