"Seems to me you've lost them already," commented Peter; "you're overdoing it."

"The more of us the better," explained Joey; "we help each other. Besides, I particularly want you in it. There's a sort of superior Pickwickian atmosphere surrounding you that disarms suspicion."

"You leave me out of it," growled Peter.

"See here," laughed Joey; "you come as the Duke of Warrington, and bring Tommy with you, and I'll write your City article."

"For how long?" snapped Peter. Incorruptible City editors are not easily picked up.

"Oh, well, for as long as you like."

"On that understanding," agreed Peter, "I'm willing to make a fool of myself in your company."

"You'll soon get used to it," Joey told him; "eight o'clock, then, on Sunday; plain evening dress. If you like to wear a bit of red ribbon in your buttonhole, why, do so. You can get it at Evans', in Covent Garden."

"And Tommy is the Lady—"

"Adelaide. Let her have a taste for literature, then she needn't wear gloves. I know she hates them." Joey turned to go.

"Am I married?" asked Peter.

Joey paused. "I should avoid all reference to your matrimonial affairs if I were you," was Joey's advice. "You didn't come out of that business too well."

"Oh! as bad as that, was I? You don't think Mrs. Loveredge will object to me?"

"I have asked her that. She's a dear, broad-minded girl. I've promised not to leave you alone with Miss Montgomery, and Willis has had instructions not to let you mix your drinks."

"I'd have liked to have been someone a trifle more respectable," grumbled Peter.

"We rather wanted a duke," explained Joey, "and he was the only one that fitted in all round."

The dinner a was a complete success. Tommy, entering into the spirit of the thing, bought a new pair of open-work stockings and assumed a languid drawl. Peter, who was growing forgetful, introduced her as the Lady Alexandra; it did not seem to matter, both beginning with an A. She greeted Lord Mount-Primrose as "Billy," and asked affectionately after his mother. Joey told his raciest stories. The Duke of Warrington called everybody by their Christian names, and seemed well acquainted with Bohemian society—a more amiable nobleman it would have been impossible to discover. The lady whose real name was not Miss Montgomery sat in speechless admiration. The hostess was the personification of gracious devotion.

Other little dinners, equally successful, followed. Joey's acquaintanceship appeared to be confined exclusively to the higher circles of the British aristocracy—with one exception: that of a German baron, a short, stout gentleman, who talked English well, but with an accent, and who, when he desired to be impressive, laid his right forefinger on the right side of his nose and thrust his whole face forward. Mrs. Loveredge wondered why her husband had not introduced them sooner, but was too blissful to be suspicious. The Autolycus Club was gradually changing its tone. Friends could no longer recognise one another by the voice. Every corner had its solitary student practising high-class intonation. Members dropped into the habit of addressing one another as "dear chappie," and, discarding pipes, took to cheap cigars. Many of the older habitues resigned.

All might have gone well to the end of time if only Mrs. Loveredge had left all social arrangements in the hands of her husband—had not sought to aid his efforts. To a certain political garden-party, one day in the height of the season, were invited Joseph Loveredge and Mrs. Joseph Loveredge, his wife. Mr. Joseph Loveredge at the last moment found himself unable to attend. Mrs. Joseph Loveredge went alone, met there various members of the British aristocracy. Mrs. Joseph Loveredge, accustomed to friendship with the aristocracy, felt at her ease and was natural and agreeable. The wife of an eminent peer talked to her and liked her. It occurred to Mrs. Joseph Loveredge that this lady might be induced to visit her house in Regent's Park, there to mingle with those of her own class.

"Lord Mount-Primrose, the Duke of Warrington, and a few others will be dining with us on Sunday next," suggested Mrs. Loveredge. "Will not you do us the honour of coming? We are, of course, only simple folk ourselves, but somehow people seem to like us."

The wife of the eminent peer looked at Mrs. Loveredge, looked round the grounds, looked at Mrs. Loveredge again, and said she would like to come. Mrs. Joseph Loveredge intended at first to tell her husband of her success, but a little devil entering into her head and whispering to her that it would be amusing, she resolved to keep it as a surprise, to be sprung upon him at eight o'clock on Sunday. The surprise proved all she could have hoped for.

The Duke of Warrington, having journalistic matters to discuss with Joseph Loveredge, arrived at half-past seven, wearing on his shirt-front a silver star, purchased in Eagle Street the day before for eight-and- six. There accompanied him the Lady Alexandra, wearing the identical ruby necklace that every night for the past six months, and twice on Saturdays, "John Strongheart" had been falsely accused of stealing. Lord Garrick, having picked up his wife (Miss Ramsbotham) outside the Mother Redcap, arrived with her on foot at a quarter to eight. Lord Mount-Primrose, together with Sir Francis Baldwin, dashed up in a hansom at seven-fifty. His Lordship, having lost the toss, paid the fare. The Hon. Harry Sykes (commonly called "the Babe") was ushered in five minutes later. The noble company assembled in the drawing-room chatted blithely while waiting for dinner to be announced. The Duke of Warrington was telling an anecdote about a cat, which nobody appeared to believe. Lord Mount-Primrose desired to know whether by any chance it might be the same animal that every night at half-past nine had been in the habit of climbing up his Grace's railings and knocking at his Grace's door. The Honourable Harry was saying that, speaking of cats, he once had a sort of terrier—when the door was thrown open and Willis announced the Lady Mary Sutton.

Mr. Joseph Loveredge, who was sitting near the fire, rose up. Lord Mount- Primrose, who was standing near the piano, sat down. The Lady Mary Sutton paused in the doorway. Mrs. Loveredge crossed the room to greet her.

"Let me introduce you to my husband," said Mrs. Loveredge. "Joey, my dear, the Lady Mary Sutton. I met the Lady Mary at the O'Meyers' the other day, and she was good enough to accept my invitation. I forgot to tell you."

Mr. Loveredge said he was delighted; after which, although as a rule a chatty man, he seemed to have nothing else to say. And a silence fell.

Somerville the Briefless—till then. That evening has always been reckoned the starting-point of his career. Up till then nobody thought he had much in him—walked up and held out his hand.

"You don't remember me, Lady Mary," said the Briefless one. "I met you some years ago; we had a most interesting conversation—Sir Francis Baldwin."

The Lady Mary stood for a moment trying apparently to recollect. She was a handsome, fresh-complexioned woman of about forty, with frank, agreeable eyes. The Lady Mary glanced at Lord Garrick, who was talking rapidly to Lord Mount-Primrose, who was not listening, and who could not have understood even if he had been, Lord Garrick, without being aware of it, having dropped into broad Scotch. From him the Lady Mary glanced at her hostess, and from her hostess to her host.

The Lady Mary took the hand held out to her. "Of course," said the Lady Mary; "how stupid of me! It was the day of my own wedding, too. You really must forgive me. We talked of quite a lot of things. I remember now."

Mrs. Loveredge, who prided herself upon maintaining old-fashioned courtesies, proceeded to introduce the Lady Mary to her fellow-guests, a little surprised that her ladyship appeared to know so few of them. Her ladyship's greeting of the Duke of Warrington was accompanied, it was remarked, by a somewhat curious smile. To the Duke of Warrington's daughter alone did the Lady Mary address remark.

"My dear," said the Lady Mary, "how you have grown since last we met!"

The announcement of dinner, as everybody felt, came none too soon.

It was not a merry feast. Joey told but one story; he told it three times, and twice left out the point. Lord Mount-Primrose took sifted sugar with pate de foie gras and ate it with a spoon. Lord Garrick, talking a mixture of Scotch and English, urged his wife to give up housekeeping and take a flat in Gower Street, which, as he pointed out, was central. She could have her meals sent in to her and so avoid all trouble. The Lady Alexandra's behaviour appeared to Mrs. Loveredge not altogether well-bred. An eccentric young noblewoman Mrs. Loveredge had always found her, but wished on this occasion that she had been a little less eccentric. Every few minutes the Lady Alexandra buried her face in her serviette, and shook and rocked, emitting stifled sounds, apparently those of acute physical pain. Mrs. Loveredge hoped she was not feeling ill, but the Lady Alexandra appeared incapable of coherent reply. Twice during the meal the Duke of Warrington rose from the table and began wandering round the room; on each occasion, asked what he wanted, had replied meekly that he was merely looking for his snuff-box, and had sat down again. The only person who seemed to enjoy the dinner was the Lady Mary Sutton.

The ladies retired upstairs into the drawing-room. Mrs. Loveredge, breaking a long silence, remarked it as unusual that no sound of merriment reached them from the dining-room. The explanation was that the entire male portion of the party, on being left to themselves, had immediately and in a body crept on tiptoe into Joey's study, which, fortunately, happened to be on the ground floor. Joey, unlocking the bookcase, had taken out his Debrett, but appeared incapable of understanding it. Sir Francis Baldwin had taken it from his unresisting hands; the remaining aristocracy huddled themselves into a corner and waited in silence.

"I think I've got it all clearly," announced Sir Francis Baldwin, after five minutes, which to the others had been an hour. "Yes, I don't think I'm making any mistake. She's the daughter of the Duke of Truro, married in '53 the Duke of Warrington, at St. Peter's, Eaton Square; gave birth in '55 to a daughter, the Lady Grace Alexandra Warberton Sutton, which makes the child just thirteen. In '63 divorced the Duke of Warrington. Lord Mount-Primrose, so far as I can make out, must be her second cousin. I appear to have married her in '66 at Hastings. It doesn't seem to me that we could have got together a homelier little party to meet her even if we had wanted to."

Nobody spoke; nobody had anything particularly worth saying. The door opened, and the Lady Alexandra (otherwise Tommy) entered the room.

"Isn't it time," suggested the Lady Alexandra, "that some of you came upstairs?"

"I was thinking myself," explained Joey, the host, with a grim smile, "it was about time that I went out and drowned myself. The canal is handy."

"Put it off till to-morrow," Tommy advised him. "I have asked her ladyship to give me a lift home, and she has promised to do so. She is evidently a woman with a sense of humour. Wait till after I have had a talk with her."

Six men, whispering at the same time, were prepared with advice; but Tommy was not taking advice.

"Come upstairs, all of you," insisted Tommy, "and make yourselves agreeable. She's going in a quarter of an hour."

Six silent men, the host leading, the two husbands bringing up the rear, ascended the stairs, each with the sensation of being twice his usual weight. Six silent men entered the drawing-room and sat down on chairs. Six silent men tried to think of something interesting to say.

Miss Ramsbotham—it was that or hysterics, as she afterwards explained—stifling a sob, opened the piano. But the only thing she could remember was "Champagne Charlie is my Name," a song then popular in the halls. Five men, when she had finished, begged her to go on. Miss Ramsbotham, speaking in a shrill falsetto, explained it was the only tune she knew. Four of them begged her to play it again. Miss Ramsbotham played it a second time with involuntary variations.

The Lady Mary's carriage was announced by the imperturbable Willis. The party, with the exception of the Lady Mary and the hostess, suppressed with difficulty an inclination to burst into a cheer. The Lady Mary thanked Mrs. Loveredge for a most interesting evening, and beckoned Tommy to accompany her. With her disappearance, a wild hilarity, uncanny in its suddenness, took possession of the remaining guests.

A few days later, the Lady Mary's carriage again drew up before the little house in Regent's Park. Mrs. Loveredge, fortunately, was at home. The carriage remained waiting for quite a long time. Mrs. Loveredge, after it was gone, locked herself in her own room. The under-housemaid reported to the kitchen that, passing the door, she had detected sounds indicative of strong emotion.

Through what ordeal Joseph Loveredge passed was never known. For a few weeks the Autolycus Club missed him. Then gradually, as aided by Time they have a habit of doing, things righted themselves. Joseph Loveredge received his old friends; his friends received Joseph Loveredge. Mrs. Loveredge, as a hostess, came to have only one failing—a marked coldness of demeanour towards all people with titles, whenever introduced to her.



STORY THE SIXTH—"The Babe" applies for Shares

People said of the new journal, Good Humour—people of taste and judgment, that it was the brightest, the cleverest, the most literary penny weekly that ever had been offered to the public. This made Peter Hope, editor and part-proprietor, very happy. William Clodd, business manager, and also part-proprietor, it left less elated.

"Must be careful," said William Clodd, "that we don't make it too clever. Happy medium, that's the ideal."

People said—people of taste and judgment, that Good Humour was more worthy of support than all the other penny weeklies put together. People of taste and judgment even went so far, some of them, as to buy it. Peter Hope, looking forward, saw fame and fortune coming to him.

William Clodd, looking round about him, said—

"Doesn't it occur to you, Guv'nor, that we're getting this thing just a trifle too high class?"

"What makes you think that?" demanded Peter Hope.

"Our circulation, for one thing," explained Clodd. "The returns for last month—"

"I'd rather you didn't mention them, if you don't mind," interrupted Peter Hope; "somehow, hearing the actual figures always depresses me."

"Can't say I feel inspired by them myself," admitted Clodd.

"It will come," said Peter Hope, "it will come in time. We must educate the public up to our level."

"If there is one thing, so far as I have noticed," said William Clodd, "that the public are inclined to pay less for than another, it is for being educated."

"What are we to do?" asked Peter Hope.

"What you want," answered William Clodd, "is an office-boy."

"How will our having an office-boy increase our circulation?" demanded Peter Hope. "Besides, it was agreed that we could do without one for the first year. Why suggest more expense?"

"I don't mean an ordinary office-boy," explained Clodd. "I mean the sort of boy that I rode with in the train going down to Stratford yesterday."

"What was there remarkable about him?"

"Nothing. He was reading the current number of the Penny Novelist. Over two hundred thousand people buy it. He is one of them. He told me so. When he had done with it, he drew from his pocket a copy of the Halfpenny Joker—they guarantee a circulation of seventy thousand. He sat and chuckled over it until we got to Bow."

"But—"

"You wait a minute. I'm coming to the explanation. That boy represents the reading public. I talked to him. The papers he likes best are the papers that have the largest sales. He never made a single mistake. The others—those of them he had seen—he dismissed as 'rot.' What he likes is what the great mass of the journal-buying public likes. Please him—I took his name and address, and he is willing to come to us for eight shillings a week—and you please the people that buy. Not the people that glance through a paper when it is lying on the smoking-room table, and tell you it is damned good, but the people that plank down their penny. That's the sort we want."

Peter Hope, able editor, with ideals, was shocked—indignant. William Clodd, business man, without ideals, talked figures.

"There's the advertiser to be thought of," persisted Clodd. "I don't pretend to be a George Washington, but what's the use of telling lies that sound like lies, even to one's self while one's telling them? Give me a genuine sale of twenty thousand, and I'll undertake, without committing myself, to convey an impression of forty. But when the actual figures are under eight thousand—well, it hampers you, if you happen to have a conscience.

"Give them every week a dozen columns of good, sound literature," continued Clodd insinuatingly, "but wrap it up in twenty-four columns of jam. It's the only way they'll take it, and you will be doing them good—educating them without their knowing it. All powder and no jam! Well, they don't open their mouths, that's all."

Clodd was a man who knew how to get his way. Flipp—spelled Philip—Tweetel arrived in due course of time at 23, Crane Court, ostensibly to take up the position of Good Humour's office-boy; in reality, and without his being aware of it, to act as its literary taster. Stories in which Flipp became absorbed were accepted. Peter groaned, but contented himself with correcting only their grosser grammatical blunders; the experiment should be tried in all good faith. Humour at which Flipp laughed was printed. Peter tried to ease his conscience by increasing his subscription to the fund for destitute compositors, but only partially succeeded. Poetry that brought a tear to the eye of Flipp was given leaded type. People of taste and judgment said Good Humour had disappointed them. Its circulation, slowly but steadily, increased.

"See!" cried the delighted Clodd; "told you so!"

"It's sad to think—" began Peter.

"Always is," interrupted Clodd cheerfully. "Moral—don't think too much."

"Tell you what we'll do," added Clodd. "We'll make a fortune out of this paper. Then when we can afford to lose a little money, we'll launch a paper that shall appeal only to the intellectual portion of the public. Meanwhile—"

A squat black bottle with a label attached, standing on the desk, arrested Clodd's attention.

"When did this come?" asked Clodd.

"About an hour ago," Peter told him.

"Any order with it?"

"I think so." Peter searched for and found a letter addressed to "William Clodd, Esq., Advertising Manager, Good Humour." Clodd tore it open, hastily devoured it.

"Not closed up yet, are you?"

"No, not till eight o'clock."

"Good! I want you to write me a par. Do it now, then you won't forget it. For the 'Walnuts and Wine' column."

Peter sat down, headed a sheet of paper: 'For W. and W. Col.'

"What is it?" questioned Peter—"something to drink?"

"It's a sort of port," explained Clodd, "that doesn't get into your head."

"You consider that an advantage?" queried Peter.

"Of course. You can drink more of it."

Peter continued to write: 'Possesses all the qualities of an old vintage port, without those deleterious properties—' "I haven't tasted it, Clodd," hinted Peter.

"That's all right—I have."

"And was it good?"

"Splendid stuff. Say it's 'delicious and invigorating.' They'll be sure to quote that."

Peter wrote on: 'Personally I have found it delicious and—' Peter left off writing. "I really think, Clodd, I ought to taste it. You see, I am personally recommending it."

"Finish that par. Let me have it to take round to the printers. Then put the bottle in your pocket. Take it home and make a night of it."

Clodd appeared to be in a mighty hurry. Now, this made Peter only the more suspicious. The bottle was close to his hand. Clodd tried to intercept him, but was not quick enough.

"You're not used to temperance drinks," urged Clodd. "Your palate is not accustomed to them."

"I can tell whether it's 'delicious' or not, surely?" pleaded Peter, who had pulled out the cork.

"It's a quarter-page advertisement for thirteen weeks. Put it down and don't be a fool!" urged Clodd.

"I'm going to put it down," laughed Peter, who was fond of his joke. Peter poured out half a tumblerful, and drank—some of it.

"Like it?" demanded Clodd, with a savage grin.

"You are sure—you are sure it was the right bottle?" gasped Peter.

"Bottle's all right," Clodd assured him. "Try some more. Judge it fairly."

Peter ventured on another sip. "You don't think they would be satisfied if I recommended it as a medicine?" insinuated Peter—"something to have about the house in case of accidental poisoning?"

"Better go round and suggest the idea to them yourself. I've done with it." Clodd took up his hat.

"I'm sorry—I'm very sorry," sighed Peter. "But I couldn't conscientiously—"

Clodd put down his hat again with a bang. "Oh! confound that conscience of yours! Don't it ever think of your creditors? What's the use of my working out my lungs for you, when all you do is to hamper me at every step?"

"Wouldn't it be better policy," urged Peter, "to go for the better class of advertiser, who doesn't ask you for this sort of thing?"

"Go for him!" snorted Clodd. "Do you think I don't go for him? They are just sheep. Get one, you get the lot. Until you've got the one, the others won't listen to you."

"That's true," mused Peter. "I spoke to Wilkinson, of Kingsley's, myself. He advised me to try and get Landor's. He thought that if I could get an advertisement out of Landor, he might persuade his people to give us theirs."

"And if you had gone to Landor, he would have promised you theirs provided you got Kingsley's."

"They will come," thought hopeful Peter. "We are going up steadily. They will come with a rush."

"They had better come soon," thought Clodd. "The only things coming with a rush just now are bills."

"Those articles of young McTear's attracted a good deal of attention," expounded Peter. "He has promised to write me another series."

"Jowett is the one to get hold of," mused Clodd. "Jowett, all the others follow like a flock of geese waddling after the old gander. If only we could get hold of Jowett, the rest would be easy."

Jowett was the proprietor of the famous Marble Soap. Jowett spent on advertising every year a quarter of a million, it was said. Jowett was the stay and prop of periodical literature. New papers that secured the Marble Soap advertisement lived and prospered; the new paper to which it was denied languished and died. Jowett, and how to get hold of him; Jowett, and how to get round him, formed the chief topic of discussion at the council-board of most new papers, Good Humour amongst the number.

"I have heard," said Miss Ramsbotham, who wrote the Letter to Clorinda that filled each week the last two pages of Good Humour, and that told Clorinda, who lived secluded in the country, the daily history of the highest class society, among whom Miss Ramsbotham appeared to live and have her being; who they were, and what they wore, the wise and otherwise things they did—"I have heard," said Miss Ramsbotham one morning, Jowett being as usual the subject under debate, "that the old man is susceptible to female influence."

"What I have always thought," said Clodd. "A lady advertising-agent might do well. At all events, they couldn't kick her out."

"They might in the end," thought Peter. "Female door-porters would become a profession for muscular ladies if ever the idea took root."

"The first one would get a good start, anyhow," thought Clodd.

The sub-editor had pricked up her ears. Once upon a time, long ago, the sub-editor had succeeded, when all other London journalists had failed, in securing an interview with a certain great statesman. The sub-editor had never forgotten this—nor allowed anyone else to forget it.

"I believe I could get it for you," said the sub-editor.

The editor and the business-manager both spoke together. They spoke with decision and with emphasis.

"Why not?" said the sub-editor. "When nobody else could get at him, it was I who interviewed Prince—"

"We've heard all about that," interrupted the business-manager. "If I had been your father at the time, you would never have done it."

"How could I have stopped her?" retorted Peter Hope. "She never said a word to me."

"You could have kept an eye on her."

"Kept an eye on her! When you've got a girl of your own, you'll know more about them."

"When I have," asserted Clodd, "I'll manage her."

"We know all about bachelor's children," sneered Peter Hope, the editor.

"You leave it to me. I'll have it for you before the end of the week," crowed the sub-editor.

"If you do get it," returned Clodd, "I shall throw it out, that's all."

"You said yourself a lady advertising-agent would be a good idea," the sub-editor reminded him.

"So she might be," returned Clodd; "but she isn't going to be you."

"Why not?"

"Because she isn't, that's why."

"But if—"

"See you at the printer's at twelve," said Clodd to Peter, and went out suddenly.

"Well, I think he's an idiot," said the sub-editor.

"I do not often," said the editor, "but on this point I agree with him. Cadging for advertisements isn't a woman's work."

"But what is the difference between—"

"All the difference in the world," thought the editor.

"You don't know what I was going to say," returned his sub.

"I know the drift of it," asserted the editor.

"But you let me—"

"I know I do—a good deal too much. I'm going to turn over a new leaf."

"All I propose to do—"

"Whatever it is, you're not going to do it," declared the chief. "Shall be back at half-past twelve, if anybody comes."

"It seems to me—" But Peter was gone.

"Just like them all," wailed the sub-editor. "They can't argue; when you explain things to them, they go out. It does make me so mad!"

Miss Ramsbotham laughed. "You are a downtrodden little girl, Tommy."

"As if I couldn't take care of myself!" Tommy's chin was high up in the air.

"Cheer up," suggested Miss Ramsbotham. "Nobody ever tells me not to do anything. I would change with you if I could."

"I'd have walked into that office and have had that advertisement out of old Jowett in five minutes, I know I would," bragged Tommy. "I can always get on with old men."

"Only with the old ones?" queried Miss Ramsbotham.

The door opened. "Anybody in?" asked the face of Johnny Bulstrode, appearing in the jar.

"Can't you see they are?" snapped Tommy.

"Figure of speech," explained Johnny Bulstrode, commonly called "the Babe," entering and closing the door behind him.

"What do you want?" demanded the sub-editor.

"Nothing in particular," replied the Babe.

"Wrong time of the day to come for it, half-past eleven in the morning," explained the sub-editor.

"What's the matter with you?" asked the Babe.

"Feeling very cross," confessed the sub-editor.

The childlike face of the Babe expressed sympathetic inquiry.

"We are very indignant," explained Miss Ramsbotham, "because we are not allowed to rush off to Cannon Street and coax an advertisement out of old Jowett, the soap man. We feel sure that if we only put on our best hat, he couldn't possibly refuse us."

"No coaxing required," thought the sub-editor. "Once get in to see the old fellow and put the actual figures before him, he would clamour to come in."

"Won't he see Clodd?" asked the Babe.

"Won't see anybody on behalf of anything new just at present, apparently," answered Miss Ramsbotham. "It was my fault. I was foolish enough to repeat that I had heard he was susceptible to female charm. They say it was Mrs. Sarkitt that got the advertisement for The Lamp out of him. But, of course, it may not be true."

"Wish I was a soap man and had got advertisements to give away," sighed the Babe.

"Wish you were," agreed the sub-editor.

"You should have them all, Tommy."

"My name," corrected him the sub-editor, "is Miss Hope."

"I beg your pardon," said the Babe. "I don't know how it is, but one gets into the way of calling you Tommy."

"I will thank you," said the sub-editor, "to get out of it."

"I am sorry," said the Babe.

"Don't let it occur again," said the sub-editor.

The Babe stood first on one leg and then on the other, but nothing seemed to come of it. "Well," said the Babe, "I just looked in, that's all. Nothing I can do for you?"

"Nothing," thanked him the sub-editor.

"Good morning," said the Babe.

"Good morning," said the sub-editor.

The childlike face of the Babe wore a chastened expression as it slowly descended the stairs. Most of the members of the Autolycus Club looked in about once a day to see if they could do anything for Tommy. Some of them had luck. Only the day before, Porson—a heavy, most uninteresting man—had been sent down all the way to Plaistow to inquire after the wounded hand of a machine-boy. Young Alexander, whose poetry some people could not even understand, had been commissioned to search London for a second-hand edition of Maitland's Architecture. Since a fortnight nearly now, when he had been sent out to drive away an organ that would not go, Johnny had been given nothing.

Johnny turned the corner into Fleet Street feeling bitter with his lot. A boy carrying a parcel stumbled against him.

"Beg yer pardon—" the small boy looked up into Johnny's face, "miss," added the small boy, dodging the blow and disappearing into the crowd.

The Babe, by reason of his childlike face, was accustomed to insults of this character, but to-day it especially irritated him. Why at twenty- two could he not grow even a moustache? Why was he only five feet five and a half? Why had Fate cursed him with a pink-and-white complexion, so that the members of his own club had nicknamed him "the Babe," while street-boys as they passed pleaded with him for a kiss? Why was his very voice, a flute-like alto, more suitable—Suddenly an idea sprang to life within his brain. The idea grew. Passing a barber's shop, Johnny went in.

"'Air cut, sir?" remarked the barber, fitting a sheet round Johnny's neck.

"No, shave," corrected Johnny.

"Beg pardon," said the barber, substituting a towel for the sheet. "Do you shave up, sir?" later demanded the barber.

"Yes," answered Johnny.

"Pleasant weather we are having," said the barber.

"Very," assented Johnny.

From the barber's, Johnny went to Stinchcombe's, the costumier's, in Drury Lane.

"I am playing in a burlesque," explained the Babe. "I want you to rig me out completely as a modern girl."

"Peeth o' luck!" said the shopman. "Goth the very bundle for you. Juth come in."

"I shall want everything," explained the Babe, "from the boots to the hat; stays, petticoats—the whole bag of tricks."

"Regular troutheau there," said the shopman, emptying out the canvas bag upon the counter. "Thry 'em on."

The Babe contented himself with trying on the costume and the boots.

"Juth made for you!" said the shopman.

A little loose about the chest, suggested the Babe.

"Thath's all right," said the shopman. "Couple o' thmall towelths, all thath's wanted."

"You don't think it too showy?" queried the Babe.

"Thowy? Sthylish, thath's all."

"You are sure everything's here?"

"Everythinkth there. 'Thept the bit o' meat inthide," assured him the shopman.

The Babe left a deposit, and gave his name and address. The shopman promised the things should be sent round within an hour. The Babe, who had entered into the spirit of the thing, bought a pair of gloves and a small reticule, and made his way to Bow Street.

"I want a woman's light brown wig," said the Babe to Mr. Cox, the perruquier.

Mr. Cox tried on two. The deceptive appearance of the second Mr. Cox pronounced as perfect.

"Looks more natural on you than your own hair, blessed if it doesn't!" said Mr. Cox.

The wig also was promised within the hour. The spirit of completeness descended upon the Babe. On his way back to his lodgings in Great Queen Street, he purchased a ladylike umbrella and a veil.

Now, a quarter of an hour after Johnny Bulstrode had made his exit by the door of Mr. Stinchcombe's shop, one, Harry Bennett, actor and member of the Autolycus Club, pushed it open and entered. The shop was empty. Harry Bennett hammered with his stick and waited. A piled-up bundle of clothes lay upon the counter; a sheet of paper, with a name and address scrawled across it, rested on the bundle. Harry Bennett, given to idle curiosity, approached and read the same. Harry Bennett, with his stick, poked the bundle, scattering its items over the counter.

"Donth do thath!" said the shopman, coming up. "Juth been putting 'em together."

"What the devil," said Harry Bennett, "is Johnny Bulstrode going to do with that rig-out?"

"How thoud I know?" answered the shopman. "Private theathricals, I suppoth. Friend o' yourth?"

"Yes," replied Harry Bennett. "By Jove! he ought to make a good girl. Should like to see it!"

"Well arthk him for a ticket. Donth make 'em dirty," suggested the shopman.

"I must," said Harry Bennett, and talked about his own affairs.

The rig-out and the wig did not arrive at Johnny's lodgings within the hour as promised, but arrived there within three hours, which was as much as Johnny had expected. It took Johnny nearly an hour to dress, but at last he stood before the plate-glass panel of the wardrobe transformed. Johnny had reason to be pleased with the result. A tall, handsome girl looked back at him out of the glass—a little showily dressed, perhaps, but decidedly chic.

"Wonder if I ought to have a cloak," mused Johnny, as a ray of sunshine, streaming through the window, fell upon the image in the glass. "Well, anyhow, I haven't," thought Johnny, as the sunlight died away again, "so it's no good thinking about it."

Johnny seized his reticule and his umbrella and opened cautiously the door. Outside all was silent. Johnny stealthily descended; in the passage paused again. Voices sounded from the basement. Feeling like an escaped burglar, Johnny slipped the latch of the big door and peeped out. A policeman, pasting, turned and looked at him. Johnny hastily drew back and closed the door again. Somebody was ascending from the kitchen. Johnny, caught between two terrors, nearer to the front door than to the stairs, having no time, chose the street. It seemed to Johnny that the street was making for him. A woman came hurriedly towards him. What was she going to say to him? What should he answer her? To his surprise she passed him, hardly noticing him. Wondering what miracle had saved him, he took a few steps forward. A couple of young clerks coming up from behind turned to look at him, but on encountering his answering stare of angry alarm, appeared confused and went their way. It began to dawn upon him that mankind was less discerning than he had feared. Gaining courage as he proceeded, he reached Holborn. Here the larger crowd swept around him indifferent.

"I beg your pardon," said Johnny, coming into collision with a stout gentleman.

"My fault," replied the stout gentleman, as, smiling, he picked up his damaged hat.

"I beg your pardon," repeated Johnny again two minutes later, colliding with a tall young lady.

"Should advise you to take something for that squint of yours," remarked the tall young lady with severity.

"What's the matter with me?" thought Johnny. "Seems to be a sort of mist—" The explanation flashed across him. "Of course," said Johnny to himself, "it's this confounded veil!"

Johnny decided to walk to the Marble Soap offices. "I'll be more used to the hang of things by the time I get there if I walk," thought Johnny. "Hope the old beggar's in."

In Newgate Street, Johnny paused and pressed his hands against his chest. "Funny sort of pain I've got," thought Johnny. "Wonder if I should shock them if I went in somewhere for a drop of brandy?"

"It don't get any better," reflected Johnny, with some alarm, on reaching the corner of Cheapside. "Hope I'm not going to be ill. Whatever—" The explanation came to him. "Of course, it's these damned stays! No wonder girls are short-tempered, at times."

At the offices of the Marble Soap, Johnny was treated with marked courtesy. Mr. Jowett was out, was not expected back till five o'clock. Would the lady wait, or would she call again? The lady decided, now she was there, to wait. Would the lady take the easy-chair? Would the lady have the window open or would she have it shut? Had the lady seen The Times?

"Or the Ha'penny Joker?" suggested a junior clerk, who thereupon was promptly sent back to his work.

Many of the senior clerks had occasion to pass through the waiting-room. Two of the senior clerks held views about the weather which they appeared wishful to express at length. Johnny began to enjoy himself. This thing was going to be good fun. By the time the slamming of doors and the hurrying of feet announced the advent of the chief, Johnny was looking forward to his interview.

It was briefer and less satisfactory than he had anticipated. Mr. Jowett was very busy—did not as a rule see anybody in the afternoon; but of course, a lady—"Would Miss—"

"Montgomery."

"Would Miss Montgomery inform Mr. Jowett what it was he might have the pleasure of doing for her?"

Miss Montgomery explained.

Mr. Jowett seemed half angry, half amused.

"Really," said Mr. Jowett, "this is hardly playing the game. Against our fellow-men we can protect ourselves, but if the ladies are going to attack us—really it isn't fair."

Miss Montgomery pleaded.

"I'll think it over," was all that Mr. Jowett could be made to promise. "Look me up again."

"When?" asked Miss Montgomery.

"What's to-day?—Thursday. Say Monday." Mr. Jowett rang the bell. "Take my advice," said the old gentleman, laying a fatherly hand on Johnny's shoulder, "leave business to us men. You are a handsome girl. You can do better for yourself than this."

A clerk entered, Johnny rose.

"On Monday next, then," Johnny reminded him.

"At four o'clock," agreed Mr. Jowett. "Good afternoon."

Johnny went out feeling disappointed, and yet, as he told himself, he hadn't done so badly. Anyhow, there was nothing for it but to wait till Monday. Now he would go home, change his clothes, and get some dinner. He hailed a hansom.

"Number twenty-eight—no. Stop at the Queen's Street corner of Lincoln's Inn Fields," Johnny directed the man.

"Quite right, miss," commented the cabman pleasantly. "Corner's best—saves all talk."

"What do you mean?" demanded Johnny.

"No offence, miss," answered the man. "We was all young once."

Johnny climbed in. At the corner of Queen Street and Lincoln's Inn Fields, Johnny got out. Johnny, who had been pondering other matters, put his hand instinctively to where, speaking generally, his pocket should have been; then recollected himself.

"Let me see, did I think to bring any money out with me, or did I not?" mused Johnny, as he stood upon the kerb.

"Look in the ridicule, miss," suggested the cabman.

Johnny looked. It was empty.

"Perhaps I put it in my pocket," thought Johnny.

The cabman hitched his reins to the whip-socket and leant back.

"It's somewhere about here, I know, I saw it," Johnny told himself. "Sorry to keep you waiting," Johnny added aloud to the cabman.

"Don't you worry about that, miss," replied the cabman civilly; "we are used to it. A shilling a quarter of an hour is what we charge."

"Of all the damned silly tricks!" muttered Johnny to himself.

Two small boys and a girl carrying a baby paused, interested.

"Go away," told them the cabman. "You'll have troubles of your own one day."

The urchins moved a few steps further, then halted again and were joined by a slatternly woman and another boy.

"Got it!" cried Johnny, unable to suppress his delight as his hand slipped through a fold. The lady with the baby, without precisely knowing why, set up a shrill cheer. Johnny's delight died away; it wasn't the pocket-hole. Short of taking the skirt off and turning it inside out, it didn't seem to Johnny that he ever would find that pocket.

Then in that moment of despair he came across it accidentally. It was as empty as the reticule!

"I am sorry," said Johnny to the cabman, "but I appear to have come out without my purse."

The cabman said he had heard that tale before, and was making preparations to descend. The crowd, now numbering eleven, looked hopeful. It occurred to Johnny later that he might have offered his umbrella to the cabman; at least it would have fetched the eighteenpence. One thinks of these things afterwards. The only idea that occurred to him at the moment was that of getting home.

"'Ere, 'old my 'orse a minute, one of yer," shouted the cabman.

Half a dozen willing hands seized the dozing steed and roused it into madness.

"Hi! stop 'er!" roared the cabman.

"She's down!" shouted the excited crowd.

"Tripped over 'er skirt," explained the slatternly woman. "They do 'amper you."

"No, she's not. She's up again!" vociferated a delighted plumber, with a sounding slap on his own leg. "Gor blimy, if she ain't a good 'un!"

Fortunately the Square was tolerably clear and Johnny a good runner. Holding now his skirt and petticoat high in his left hand, Johnny moved across the Square at the rate of fifteen miles an hour. A butcher's boy sprang in front of him with arms held out to stop him. The thing that for the next three months annoyed that butcher boy most was hearing shouted out after him "Yah! who was knocked down and run over by a lidy?" By the time Johnny reached the Strand, via Clement's Inn, the hue and cry was far behind. Johnny dropped his skirts and assumed a more girlish pace. Through Bow Street and Long Acre he reached Great Queen Street in safety. Upon his own doorstep he began to laugh. His afternoon's experience had been amusing; still, on the whole, he wasn't sorry it was over. One can have too much even of the best of jokes. Johnny rang the bell.

The door opened. Johnny would have walked in had not a big, raw-boned woman barred his progress.

"What do you want?" demanded the raw-boned woman.

"Want to come in," explained Johnny.

"What do you want to come in for?"

This appeared to Johnny a foolish question. On reflection he saw the sense of it. This raw-boned woman was not Mrs. Pegg, his landlady. Some friend of hers, he supposed.

"It's all right," said Johnny, "I live here. Left my latchkey at home, that's all."

"There's no females lodging here," declared the raw-boned lady. "And what's more, there's going to be none."

All this was very vexing. Johnny, in his joy at reaching his own doorstep, had not foreseen these complications. Now it would be necessary to explain things. He only hoped the story would not get round to the fellows at the club.

"Ask Mrs. Pegg to step up for a minute," requested Johnny.

"Not at 'ome," explained the raw-boned lady.

"Not—not at home?"

"Gone to Romford, if you wish to know, to see her mother."

"Gone to Romford?"

"I said Romford, didn't I?" retorted the raw-boned lady, tartly.

"What—what time do you expect her in?"

"Sunday evening, six o'clock," replied the raw-boned lady.

Johnny looked at the raw-boned lady, imagined himself telling the raw- boned lady the simple, unvarnished truth, and the raw-boned lady's utter disbelief of every word of it. An inspiration came to his aid.

"I am Mr. Bulstrode's sister," said Johnny meekly; "he's expecting me."

"Thought you said you lived here?" reminded him the raw-boned lady.

"I meant that he lived here," replied poor Johnny still more meekly. "He has the second floor, you know."

"I know," replied the raw-boned lady. "Not in just at present."

"Not in?"

"Went out at three o'clock."

"I'll go up to his room and wait for him," said Johnny.

"No, you won't," said the raw-boned lady.

For an instant it occurred to Johnny to make a dash for it, but the raw- boned lady looked both formidable and determined. There would be a big disturbance—perhaps the police called in. Johnny had often wanted to see his name in print: in connection with this affair he somehow felt he didn't.

"Do let me in," Johnny pleaded; "I have nowhere else to go."

"You have a walk and cool yourself," suggested the raw-boned lady. "Don't expect he will be long."

"But, you see—"

The raw-boned lady slammed the door.

Outside a restaurant in Wellington Street, from which proceeded savoury odours, Johnny paused and tried to think.

"What the devil did I do with that umbrella? I had it—no, I didn't. Must have dropped it, I suppose, when that silly ass tried to stop me. By Jove! I am having luck!"

Outside another restaurant in the Strand Johnny paused again. "How am I to live till Sunday night? Where am I to sleep? If I telegraph home—damn it! how can I telegraph? I haven't got a penny. This is funny," said Johnny, unconsciously speaking aloud; "upon my word, this is funny! Oh! you go to—."

Johnny hurled this last at the head of an overgrown errand-boy whose intention had been to offer sympathy.

"Well, I never!" commented a passing flower-girl. "Calls 'erself a lidy, I suppose."

"Nowadays," observed the stud and button merchant at the corner of Exeter Street, "they make 'em out of anything."

Drawn by a notion that was forming in his mind, Johnny turned his steps up Bedford Street. "Why not?" mused Johnny. "Nobody else seems to have a suspicion. Why should they? I'll never hear the last of it if they find me out. But why should they find me out? Well, something's got to be done."

Johnny walked on quickly. At the door of the Autolycus Club he was undecided for a moment, then took his courage in both hands and plunged through the swing doors.

"Is Mr. Herring—Mr. Jack Herring—here?"

"Find him in the smoking-room, Mr. Bulstrode," answered old Goslin, who was reading the evening paper.

"Oh, would you mind asking him to step out a moment?"

Old Goslin looked up, took off his spectacles, rubbed them, put them on again.

"Please say Miss Bulstrode—Mr. Bulstrode's sister."

Old Goslin found Jack Herring the centre of an earnest argument on Hamlet—was he really mad?

"A lady to see you, Mr. Herring," announced old Goslin.

"A what?"

"Miss Bulstrode—Mr. Bulstrode's sister. She's waiting in the hall."

"Never knew he had a sister," said Jack Herring, rising.

"Wait a minute," said Harry Bennett. "Shut that door. Don't go." This to old Goslin, who closed the door and returned. "Lady in a heliotrope dress with a lace collar, three flounces on the skirt?"

"That's right, Mr. Bennett," agreed old Goslin.

"It's the Babe himself!" asserted Harry Bennett.

The question of Hamlet's madness was forgotten.

"Was in at Stinchcombe's this morning," explained Harry Bennett; "saw the clothes on the counter addressed to him. That's the identical frock. This is just a 'try on'—thinks he's going to have a lark with us."

The Autolycus Club looked round at itself.

"I can see verra promising possibilities in this, provided the thing is properly managed," said the Wee Laddie, after a pause.

"So can I," agreed Jack Herring. "Keep where you are, all of you. 'Twould be a pity to fool it."

The Autolycus Club waited. Jack Herring re-entered the room.

"One of the saddest stories I have ever heard in all my life," explained Jack Herring in a whisper. "Poor girl left Derbyshire this morning to come and see her brother; found him out—hasn't been seen at his lodgings since three o'clock; fears something may have happened to him. Landlady gone to Romford to see her mother; strange woman in charge, won't let her in to wait for him."

"How sad it is when trouble overtakes the innocent and helpless!" murmured Somerville the Briefless.

"That's not the worst of it," continued Jack. "The dear girl has been robbed of everything she possesses, even of her umbrella, and hasn't got a sou; hasn't had any dinner, and doesn't know where to sleep."

"Sounds a bit elaborate," thought Porson.

"I think I can understand it," said the Briefless one. "What has happened is this. He's dressed up thinking to have a bit of fun with us, and has come out, forgetting to put any money or his latchkey in his pocket. His landlady may have gone to Romford or may not. In any case, he would have to knock at the door and enter into explanations. What does he suggest—the loan of a sovereign?"

"The loan of two," replied Jack Herring.

"To buy himself a suit of clothes. Don't you do it, Jack. Providence has imposed this upon us. Our duty is to show him the folly of indulging in senseless escapades."

"I think we might give him a dinner," thought the stout and sympathetic Porson.

"What I propose to do," grinned Jack, "is to take him round to Mrs. Postwhistle's. She's under a sort of obligation to me. It was I who got her the post office. We'll leave him there for a night, with instructions to Mrs. P. to keep a motherly eye on him. To-morrow he shall have his 'bit of fun,' and I guess he'll be the first to get tired of the joke."

It looked a promising plot. Seven members of the Autolycus Club gallantly undertook to accompany "Miss Bulstrode" to her lodgings. Jack Herring excited jealousy by securing the privilege of carrying her reticule. "Miss Bulstrode" was given to understand that anything any of the seven could do for her, each and every would be delighted to do, if only for the sake of her brother, one of the dearest boys that ever breathed—a bit of an ass, though that, of course, he could not help. "Miss Bulstrode" was not as grateful as perhaps she should have been. Her idea still was that if one of them would lend her a couple of sovereigns, the rest need not worry themselves further. This, purely in her own interests, they declined to do. She had suffered one extensive robbery that day already, as Jack reminded her. London was a city of danger to the young and inexperienced. Far better that they should watch over her and provide for her simple wants. Painful as it was to refuse a lady, a beloved companion's sister's welfare was yet dearer to them. "Miss Bulstrode's" only desire was not to waste their time. Jack Herring's opinion was that there existed no true Englishman who would grudge time spent upon succouring a beautiful maiden in distress.

Arrived at the little grocer's shop in Rolls Court, Jack Herring drew Mrs. Postwhistle aside.

"She's the sister of a very dear friend of ours," explained Jack Herring.

"A fine-looking girl," commented Mrs. Postwhistle.

"I shall be round again in the morning. Don't let her out of your sight, and, above all, don't lend her any money," directed Jack Herring.

"I understand," replied Mrs. Postwhistle.

"Miss Bulstrode" having despatched an excellent supper of cold mutton and bottled beer, leant back in her chair and crossed her legs.

"I have often wondered," remarked Miss Bulstrode, her eyes fixed upon the ceiling, "what a cigarette would taste like."

"Taste nasty, I should say, the first time," thought Mrs. Postwhistle, who was knitting.

"Some girls, so I have heard," remarked Miss Bulstrode, "smoke cigarettes."

"Not nice girls," thought Mrs. Postwhistle.

"One of the nicest girls I ever knew," remarked Miss Bulstrode, "always smoked a cigarette after supper. Said it soothed her nerves."

"Wouldn't 'ave thought so if I'd 'ad charge of 'er," said Mrs. Postwhistle.

"I think," said Miss Bulstrode, who seemed restless, "I think I shall go for a little walk before turning in."

"Perhaps it would do us good," agreed Mrs. Postwhistle, laying down her knitting.

"Don't you trouble to come," urged the thoughtful Miss Bulstrode. "You look tired."

"Not at all," replied Mrs. Postwhistle. "Feel I should like it."

In some respects Mrs. Postwhistle proved an admirable companion. She asked no questions, and only spoke when spoken to, which, during that walk, was not often. At the end of half an hour, Miss Bulstrode pleaded a headache and thought she would return home and go to bed. Mrs. Postwhistle thought it a reasonable idea.

"Well, it's better than tramping the streets," muttered Johnny, as the bedroom door was closed behind him, "and that's all one can say for it. Must get hold of a smoke to-morrow, if I have to rob the till. What's that?" Johnny stole across on, tiptoe. "Confound it!" said Johnny, "if she hasn't locked the door!"

Johnny sat down upon the bed and took stock of his position. "It doesn't seem to me," thought Johnny, "that I'm ever going to get out of this mess." Johnny, still muttering, unfastened his stays. "Thank God, that's off!" ejaculated Johnny piously, as he watched his form slowly expanding. "Suppose I'll be used to them before I've finished with them."

Johnny had a night of dreams.

For the whole of next day, which was Friday, Johnny remained "Miss Bulstrode," hoping against hope to find an opportunity to escape from his predicament without confession. The entire Autolycus Club appeared to have fallen in love with him.

"Thought I was a bit of a fool myself," mused Johnny, "where a petticoat was concerned. Don't believe these blithering idiots have ever seen a girl before."

They came in ones, they came in little parties, and tendered him devotion. Even Mrs. Postwhistle, accustomed to regard human phenomena without comment, remarked upon it.

"When you are all tired of it," said Mrs. Postwhistle to Jack Herring, "let me know."

"The moment we find her brother," explained Jack Herring, "of course we shall take her to him."

"Nothing like looking in the right place for a thing when you've finished looking in the others," observed Mrs. Postwhistle.

"What do you mean?" demanded Jack.

"Just what I say," answered Mrs. Postwhistle.

Jack Herring looked at Mrs. Postwhistle. But Mrs. Postwhistle's face was not of the expressive order.

"Post office still going strong?" asked Jack Herring.

"The post office 'as been a great 'elp to me," admitted Mrs. Postwhistle; "and I'm not forgetting that I owe it to you."

"Don't mention it," murmured Jack Herring.

They brought her presents—nothing very expensive, more as tokens of regard: dainty packets of sweets, nosegays of simple flowers, bottles of scent. To Somerville "Miss Bulstrode" hinted that if he really did desire to please her, and wasn't merely talking through his hat—Miss Bulstrode apologised for the slang, which, she feared, she must have picked up from her brother—he might give her a box of Messani's cigarettes, size No. 2. The suggestion pained him. Somerville the Briefless was perhaps old-fashioned. Miss Bulstrode cut him short by agreeing that he was, and seemed disinclined for further conversation.

They took her to Madame Tussaud's. They took her up the Monument. They took her to the Tower of London. In the evening they took her to the Polytechnic to see Pepper's Ghost. They made a merry party wherever they went.

"Seem to be enjoying themselves!" remarked other sightseers, surprised and envious.

"Girl seems to be a bit out of it," remarked others, more observant.

"Sulky-looking bit o' goods, I call her," remarked some of the ladies.

The fortitude with which Miss Bulstrode bore the mysterious disappearance of her brother excited admiration.

"Hadn't we better telegraph to your people in Derbyshire?" suggested Jack Herring.

"Don't do it," vehemently protested the thoughtful Miss Bulstrode; "it might alarm them. The best plan is for you to lend me a couple of sovereigns and let me return home quietly."

"You might be robbed again," feared Jack Herring. "I'll go down with you."

"Perhaps he'll turn up to-morrow," thought Miss Bulstrode. "Expect he's gone on a visit."

"He ought not to have done it," thought Jack Herring, "knowing you were coming."

"Oh! he's like that," explained Miss Bulstrode.

"If I had a young and beautiful sister—" said Jack Herring.

"Oh! let's talk of something else," suggested Miss Bulstrode. "You make me tired."

With Jack Herring, in particular, Johnny was beginning to lose patience. That "Miss Bulstrode's" charms had evidently struck Jack Herring all of a heap, as the saying is, had in the beginning amused Master Johnny. Indeed—as in the seclusion of his bedchamber over the little grocer's shop he told himself with bitter self-reproach—he had undoubtedly encouraged the man. From admiration Jack had rapidly passed to infatuation, from infatuation to apparent imbecility. Had Johnny's mind been less intent upon his own troubles, he might have been suspicious. As it was, and after all that had happened, nothing now could astonish Johnny. "Thank Heaven," murmured Johnny, as he blew out the light, "this Mrs. Postwhistle appears to be a reliable woman."

Now, about the same time that Johnny's head was falling thus upon his pillow, the Autolycus Club sat discussing plans for their next day's entertainment.

"I think," said Jack Herring, "the Crystal Palace in the morning when it's nice and quiet."

"To be followed by Greenwich Hospital in the afternoon," suggested Somerville.

"Winding up with the Moore and Burgess Minstrels in the evening," thought Porson.

"Hardly the place for the young person," feared Jack Herring. "Some of the jokes—"

"Mr. Brandram gives a reading of Julius Caesar at St. George's Hall," the Wee Laddie informed them for their guidance.

"Hallo!" said Alexander the Poet, entering at the moment. "What are you all talking about?"

"We were discussing where to take Miss Bulstrode to-morrow evening," informed him Jack Herring.

"Miss Bulstrode," repeated the Poet in a tone of some surprise. "Do you mean Johnny Bulstrode's sister?"

"That's the lady," answered Jack. "But how do you come to know about her? Thought you were in Yorkshire."

"Came up yesterday," explained the Poet. "Travelled up with her."

"Travelled up with her?"

"From Matlock Bath. What's the matter with you all?" demanded the Poet. "You all of you look—"

"Sit down," said the Briefless one to the Poet. "Let's talk this matter over quietly."

Alexander the Poet, mystified, sat down.

"You say you travelled up to London yesterday with Miss Bulstrode. You are sure it was Miss Bulstrode?"

"Sure!" retorted the Poet. "Why, I've known her ever since she was a baby."

"About what time did you reach London?"

"Three-thirty."

"And what became of her? Where did she say she was going?"

"I never asked her. The last I saw of her she was getting into a cab. I had an appointment myself, and was—I say, what's the matter with Herring?"

Herring had risen and was walking about with his head between his hands.

"Never mind him. Miss Bulstrode is a lady of about—how old?"

"Eighteen—no, nineteen last birthday."

"A tall, handsome sort of girl?"

"Yes. I say, has anything happened to her?"

"Nothing has happened to her," assured him Somerville. "She's all right. Been having rather a good time, on the whole."

The Poet was relieved to hear it.

"I asked her an hour ago," said Jack Herring, who was still holding his head between his hands as if to make sure it was there, "if she thought she could ever learn to love me. Would you say that could be construed into an offer of marriage?"

The remainder of the Club was unanimously of opinion that, practically speaking, it was a proposal.

"I don't see it," argued Jack Herring. "It was merely in the nature of a remark."

The Club was of opinion that such quibbling was unworthy of a gentleman.

It appeared to be a case for prompt action. Jack Herring sat down and then and there began a letter to Miss Bulstrode, care of Mrs. Postwhistle.

"But what I don't understand—" said Alexander the Poet.

"Oh! take him away somewhere and tell him, someone," moaned Jack Herring. "How can I think with all this chatter going on?"

"But why did Bennett—" whispered Porson.

"Where is Bennett?" demanded half a dozen fierce voices.

Harry Bennett had not been seen all day.

Jack's letter was delivered to "Miss Bulstrode" the next morning at breakfast-time. Having perused it, Miss Bulstrode rose and requested of Mrs. Postwhistle the loan of half a crown.

"Mr. Herring's particular instructions were," explained Mrs. Postwhistle, "that, above all things, I was not to lend you any money."

"When you have read that," replied Miss Bulstrode, handing her the letter, "perhaps you will agree with me that Herring is—an ass."

Mrs. Postwhistle read the letter and produced the half-crown.

"Better get a shave with part of it," suggested Mrs. Postwhistle. "That is, if you are going to play the fool much longer."

"Miss Bulstrode" opened his eyes. Mrs. Postwhistle went on with her breakfast.

"Don't tell them," said Johnny; "not just for a little while, at all events."

"Nothing to do with me," replied Mrs. Postwhistle.

Twenty minutes later, the real Miss Bulstrode, on a visit to her aunt in Kensington, was surprised at receiving, enclosed in an envelope, the following hastily scrawled note:—

"Want to speak to you at once—alone. Don't yell when you see me. It's all right. Can explain in two ticks.—Your loving brother, JOHNNY."

It took longer than two ticks; but at last the Babe came to an end of it.

"When you have done laughing," said the Babe.

"But you look so ridiculous," said his sister.

"They didn't think so," retorted the Babe. "I took them in all right. Guess you've never had as much attention, all in one day."

"Are you sure you took them in?" queried his sister.

"If you will come to the Club at eight o'clock this evening," said the Babe, "I'll prove it to you. Perhaps I'll take you on to a theatre afterwards—if you're good."

The Babe himself walked into the Autolycus Club a few minutes before eight and encountered an atmosphere of restraint.

"Thought you were lost," remarked Somerville coldly.

"Called away suddenly—very important business," explained the Babe. "Awfully much obliged to all you fellows for all you have been doing for my sister. She's just been telling me."

"Don't mention it," said two or three.

"Awfully good of you, I'm sure," persisted the Babe. "Don't know what she would have done without you."

A mere nothing, the Club assured him. The blushing modesty of the Autolycus Club at hearing of their own good deeds was touching. Left to themselves, they would have talked of quite other things. As a matter of fact, they tried to.

"Never heard her speak so enthusiastically of anyone as she does of you, Jack," said the Babe, turning to Jack Herring.

"Of course, you know, dear boy," explained Jack Herring, "anything I could do for a sister of yours—"

"I know, dear boy," replied the Babe; "I always felt it."

"Say no more about it," urged Jack Herring.

"She couldn't quite make out that letter of yours this morning," continued the Babe, ignoring Jack's request. "She's afraid you think her ungrateful."

"It seemed to me, on reflection," explained Jack Herring, "that on one or two little matters she may have misunderstood me. As I wrote her, there are days when I don't seem altogether to quite know what I'm doing."

"Rather awkward," thought the Babe.

"It is," agreed Jack Herring. "Yesterday was one of them."

"She tells me you were most kind to her," the Babe reassured him. "She thought at first it was a little uncivil, your refusing to lend her any money. But as I put it to her—"

"It was silly of me," interrupted Jack. "I see that now. I went round this morning meaning to make it all right. But she was gone, and Mrs. Postwhistle seemed to think I had better leave things as they were. I blame myself exceedingly."

"My dear boy, don't blame yourself for anything. You acted nobly," the Babe told him. "She's coming here to call for me this evening on purpose to thank you."

"I'd rather not," said Jack Herring.

"Nonsense," said the Babe.

"You must excuse me," insisted Jack Herring. "I don't mean it rudely, but really I'd rather not see her."

"But here she is," said the Babe, taking at that moment the card from old Goslin's hand. "She will think it so strange."

"I'd really rather not," repeated poor Jack.

"It seems discourteous," suggested Somerville.

"You go," suggested Jack.

"She doesn't want to see me," explained Somerville.

"Yes she does," corrected him the Babe.

"I'd forgotten, she wants to see you both."

"If I go," said Jack, "I shall tell her the plain truth."

"Do you know," said Somerville, "I'm thinking that will be the shortest way."

Miss Bulstrode was seated in the hall. Jack Herring and Somerville both thought her present quieter style of dress suited her much better.

"Here he is," announced the Babe, in triumph. "Here's Jack Herring and here's Somerville. Do you know, I could hardly persuade them to come out and see you. Dear old Jack, he always was so shy."

Miss Bulstrode rose. She said she could never thank them sufficiently for all their goodness to her. Miss Bulstrode seemed quite overcome. Her voice trembled with emotion.

"Before we go further, Miss Bulstrode," said Jack Herring, "it will be best to tell you that all along we thought you were your brother, dressed up as a girl."

"Oh!" said the Babe, "so that's the explanation, is it? If I had only known—" Then the Babe stopped, and wished he hadn't spoken.

Somerville seized him by the shoulders and, with a sudden jerk, stood him beside his sister under the gas-jet.

"You little brute!" said Somerville. "It was you all along." And the Babe, seeing the game was up, and glad that the joke had not been entirely on one side, confessed.

Jack Herring and Somerville the Briefless went that night with Johnny and his sister to the theatre—and on other nights. Miss Bulstrode thought Jack Herring very nice, and told her brother so. But she thought Somerville the Briefless even nicer, and later, under cross-examination, when Somerville was no longer briefless, told Somerville so himself.

But that has nothing to do with this particular story, the end of which is that Miss Bulstrode kept the appointment made for Monday afternoon between "Miss Montgomery" and Mr. Jowett, and secured thereby the Marble Soap advertisement for the back page of Good Humour for six months, at twenty-five pounds a week.



STORY THE SEVENTH—Dick Danvers presents his Petition

William Clodd, mopping his brow, laid down the screwdriver, and stepping back, regarded the result of his labours with evident satisfaction.

"It looks like a bookcase," said William Clodd. "You might sit in the room for half an hour and never know it wasn't a bookcase."

What William Clodd had accomplished was this: he had had prepared, after his own design, what appeared to be four shelves laden with works suggestive of thought and erudition. As a matter of fact, it was not a bookcase, but merely a flat board, the books merely the backs of volumes that had long since found their way into the paper-mill. This artful deception William Clodd had screwed upon a cottage piano standing in the corner of the editorial office of Good Humour. Half a dozen real volumes piled upon the top of the piano completed the illusion. As William Clodd had proudly remarked, a casual visitor might easily have been deceived.

"If you had to sit in the room while she was practising mixed scales, you'd be quickly undeceived," said the editor of Good Humour, one Peter Hope. He spoke bitterly.

"You are not always in," explained Clodd. "There must be hours when she is here alone, with nothing else to do. Besides, you will get used to it after a while."

"You, I notice, don't try to get used to it," snarled Peter Hope. "You always go out the moment she commences."

"A friend of mine," continued William Clodd, "worked in an office over a piano-shop for seven years, and when the shop closed, it nearly ruined his business; couldn't settle down to work for want of it."

"Why doesn't he come here?" asked Peter Hope. "The floor above is vacant."

"Can't," explained William Clodd. "He's dead."

"I can quite believe it," commented Peter Hope.

"It was a shop where people came and practised, paying sixpence an hour, and he had got to like it—said it made a cheerful background to his thoughts. Wonderful what you can get accustomed to."

"What's the good of it?" demanded Peter Hope.

"What's the good of it!" retorted William Clodd indignantly. "Every girl ought to know how to play the piano. A nice thing if when her lover asks her to play something to him—"

"I wonder you don't start a matrimonial agency," sneered Peter Hope. "Love and marriage—you think of nothing else."

"When you are bringing up a young girl—" argued Clodd.

"But you're not," interrupted Peter; "that's just what I'm trying to get out of your head. It is I who am bringing her up. And between ourselves, I wish you wouldn't interfere so much."

"You are not fit to bring up a girl."

"I've brought her up for seven years without your help. She's my adopted daughter, not yours. I do wish people would learn to mind their own business."

"You've done very well—"

"Thank you," said Peter Hope sarcastically. "It's very kind of you. Perhaps when you've time, you'll write me out a testimonial."

"—up till now," concluded the imperturbable Clodd. "A girl of eighteen wants to know something else besides mathematics and the classics. You don't understand them."

"I do understand them," asserted Peter Hope. "What do you know about them? You're not a father."

"You've done your best," admitted William Clodd in a tone of patronage that irritated Peter greatly; "but you're a dreamer; you don't know the world. The time is coming when the girl will have to think of a husband."

"There's no need for her to think of a husband, not for years," retorted Peter Hope. "And even when she does, is strumming on the piano going to help her?"

"I tink—I tink," said Dr. Smith, who had hitherto remained a silent listener, "our young frent Clodd is right. You haf never quite got over your idea dat she was going to be a boy. You haf taught her de tings a boy should know."

"You cut her hair," added Clodd.

"I don't," snapped Peter.

"You let her have it cut—it's the same thing. At eighteen she knows more about the ancient Greeks and Romans than she does about her own frocks."

"De young girl," argued the doctor, "what is she? De flower dat makes bright for us de garden of life, de gurgling brook dat murmurs by de dusty highway, de cheerful fire—"

"She can't be all of them," snapped Peter, who was a stickler for style. "Do keep to one simile at a time."

"Now you listen to plain sense," said William Clodd. "You want—we all want—the girl to be a success all round."

"I want her—" Peter Hope was rummaging among the litter on the desk. It certainly was not there. Peter pulled out a drawer-two drawers. "I wish," said Peter Hope, "I wish sometimes she wasn't quite so clever."

The old doctor rummaged among dusty files of papers in a corner. Clodd found it on the mantelpiece concealed beneath the hollow foot of a big brass candlestick, and handed it to Peter.

Peter had one vice—the taking in increasing quantities of snuff, which was harmful for him, as he himself admitted. Tommy, sympathetic to most masculine frailties, was severe, however, upon this one.

"You spill it upon your shirt and on your coat," had argued Tommy. "I like to see you always neat. Besides, it isn't a nice habit. I do wish, dad, you'd give it up."

"I must," Peter had agreed. "I'll break myself of it. But not all at once—it would be a wrench; by degrees, Tommy, by degrees."

So a compromise had been compounded. Tommy was to hide the snuff-box. It was to be somewhere in the room and to be accessible, but that was all. Peter, when self-control had reached the breaking-point, might try and find it. Occasionally, luck helping Peter, he would find it early in the day, when he would earn his own bitter self-reproaches by indulging in quite an orgie. But more often Tommy's artfulness was such that he would be compelled, by want of time, to abandon the search. Tommy always knew when he had failed by the air of indignant resignation with which he would greet her on her return. Then perhaps towards evening, Peter, looking up, would see the box open before his nose, above it, a pair of reproving black eyes, their severity counterbalanced by a pair of full red lips trying not to smile. And Peter, knowing that only one pinch would be permitted, would dip deeply.

"I want her," said Peter Hope, feeling with his snuff-box in his hand more confidence in his own judgment, "to be a sensible, clever woman, capable of earning her own living and of being independent; not a mere helpless doll, crying for some man to come and take care of her."

"A woman's business," asserted Clodd, "is to be taken care of."

"Some women, perhaps," admitted Peter; "but Tommy, you know very well, is not going to be the ordinary type of woman. She has brains; she will make her way in the world."

"It doesn't depend upon brains," said Clodd. "She hasn't got the elbows."

"The elbows?"

"They are not sharp enough. The last 'bus home on a wet night tells you whether a woman is capable of pushing her own way in the world. Tommy's the sort to get left on the kerb."

"She's the sort," retorted Peter, "to make a name for herself and to be able to afford a cab. Don't you bully me!" Peter sniffed self-assertiveness from between his thumb and finger.

"Yes, I shall," Clodd told him, "on this particular point. The poor girl's got no mother."

Fortunately for the general harmony the door opened at the moment to admit the subject of discussion.

"Got that Daisy Blossom advertisement out of old Blatchley," announced Tommy, waving triumphantly a piece of paper over her head.

"No!" exclaimed Peter. "How did you manage it?"

"Asked him for it," was Tommy's explanation.

"Very odd," mused Peter; "asked the old idiot for it myself only last week. He refused it point-blank."

Clodd snorted reproof. "You know I don't like your doing that sort of thing. It isn't proper for a young girl—"

"It's all right," assured him Tommy; "he's bald!"

"That makes no difference," was Clodd's opinion.

"Yes it does," was Tommy's. "I like them bald."

Tommy took Peter's head between her hands and kissed it, and in doing so noticed the tell-tale specks of snuff.

"Just a pinch, my dear," explained Peter, "the merest pinch."

Tommy took up the snuff-box from the desk. "I'll show you where I'm going to put it this time." She put it in her pocket. Peter's face fell.

"What do you think of it?" said Clodd. He led her to the corner. "Good idea, ain't it?"

"Why, where's the piano?" demanded Tommy.

Clodd turned in delighted triumph to the others.

"Humbug!" growled Peter.

"It isn't humbug," cried Clodd indignantly. "She thought it was a bookcase—anybody would. You'll be able to sit there and practise by the hour," explained Clodd to Tommy. "When you hear anybody coming up the stairs, you can leave off."

"How can she hear anything when she—" A bright idea occurred to Peter. "Don't you think, Clodd, as a practical man," suggested Peter insinuatingly, adopting the Socratic method, "that if we got her one of those dummy pianos—you know what I mean; it's just like an ordinary piano, only you don't hear it?"

Clodd shook his head. "No good at all. Can't tell the effect she is producing."

"Quite so. Then, on the other hand, Clodd, don't you think that hearing the effect they are producing may sometimes discourage the beginner?"

Clodd's opinion was that such discouragement was a thing to be battled with.

Tommy, who had seated herself, commenced a scale in contrary motion.

"Well, I'm going across to the printer's now," explained Clodd, taking up his hat. "Got an appointment with young Grindley at three. You stick to it. A spare half-hour now and then that you never miss does wonders. You've got it in you." With these encouraging remarks to Tommy, Clodd disappeared.

"Easy for him," muttered Peter bitterly. "Always does have an appointment outside the moment she begins."

Tommy appeared to be throwing her very soul into the performance. Passers- by in Crane Court paused, regarded the first-floor windows of the publishing and editorial offices of Good Humour with troubled looks, then hurried on.

"She has—remarkably firm douch!" shouted the doctor into Peter's ear. "Will see you—evening. Someting—say to you."

The fat little doctor took his hat and departed. Tommy, ceasing suddenly, came over and seated herself on the arm of Peter's chair.

"Feeling grumpy?" asked Tommy.

"It isn't," explained Peter, "that I mind the noise. I'd put up with that if I could see the good of it."

"It's going to help me to get a husband, dad. Seems to me an odd way of doing it; but Billy says so, and Billy knows all about everything."

"I can't understand you, a sensible girl, listening to such nonsense," said Peter. "It's that that troubles me."

"Dad, where are your wits?" demanded Tommy. "Isn't Billy acting like a brick? Why, he could go into Fleet Street to half a dozen other papers and make five hundred a year as advertising-agent—you know he could. But he doesn't. He sticks to us. If my making myself ridiculous with that tin pot they persuaded him was a piano is going to please him, isn't it common sense and sound business, to say nothing of good nature and gratitude, for me to do it? Dad, I've got a surprise for him. Listen." And Tommy, springing from the arm of Peter's chair, returned to the piano.

"What was it?" questioned Tommy, having finished. "Could you recognise it?"

"I think," said Peter, "it sounded like—It wasn't 'Home, Sweet Home,' was it?"

Tommy clapped her hands. "Yes, it was. You'll end by liking it yourself, dad. We'll have musical 'At Homes.'"

"Tommy, have I brought you up properly, do you think?"

"No dad, you haven't. You have let me have my own way too much. You know the proverb: 'Good mothers make bad daughters.' Clodd's right; you've spoilt me, dad. Do you remember, dad, when I first came to you, seven years ago, a ragged little brat out of the streets, that didn't know itself whether 'twas a boy or a girl? Do you know what I thought to myself the moment I set eyes on you? 'Here's a soft old juggins; I'll be all right if I can get in here!' It makes you smart, knocking about in the gutters and being knocked about; you read faces quickly."

"Do you remember your cooking, Tommy? You 'had an aptitude for it,' according to your own idea."

Tommy laughed. "I wonder how you stood it."

"You were so obstinate. You came to me as 'cook and housekeeper,' and as cook and housekeeper, and as nothing else, would you remain. If I suggested any change, up would go your chin into the air. I dared not even dine out too often, you were such a little tyrant. The only thing you were always ready to do, if I wasn't satisfied, was to march out of the house and leave me. Wherever did you get that savage independence of yours?"

"I don't know. I think it must have been from a woman—perhaps she was my mother; I don't know—who used to sit up in the bed and cough, all night it seemed to me. People would come to see us—ladies in fine clothes, and gentlemen with oily hair. I think they wanted to help us. Many of them had kind voices. But always a hard look would come into her face, and she would tell them what even then I knew to be untrue—it was one of the first things I can recollect—that we had everything we wanted, that we needed no help from anyone. They would go away, shrugging their shoulders. I grew up with the feeling that seemed to have been burnt into my brain, that to take from anybody anything you had not earned was shameful. I don't think I could do it even now, not even from you. I am useful to you, dad—I do help you?"

There had crept a terror into Tommy's voice. Peter felt the little hands upon his arm trembling.

"Help me? Why, you work like a nigger—like a nigger is supposed to work, but doesn't. No one—whatever we paid him—would do half as much. I don't want to make your head more swollen than it is, young woman, but you have talent; I am not sure it is not genius." Peter felt the little hands tighten upon his arm.

"I do want this paper to be a success; that is why I strum upon the piano to please Clodd. Is it humbug?"

"I am afraid it is; but humbug is the sweet oil that helps this whirling world of ours to spin round smoothly. Too much of it cloys: we drop it very gently."

"But you are sure it is only humbug, Tommy?" It was Peter's voice into which fear had entered now. "It is not that you think he understands you better than I do—would do more for you?"

"You want me to tell you all I think of you, and that isn't good for you, dad—not too often. It would be you who would have swelled head then."

"I am jealous, Tommy, jealous of everyone that comes near you. Life is a tragedy for us old folks. We know there must come a day when you will leave the nest, leave us voiceless, ridiculous, flitting among bare branches. You will understand later, when you have children of your own. This foolish talk about a husband! It is worse for a man than it is for the woman. The mother lives again in her child: the man is robbed of all."

"Dad, do you know how old I am?—that you are talking terrible nonsense?"

"He will come, little girl."

"Yes," answered Tommy, "I suppose he will; but not for a long while—oh, not for a very long while. Don't. It frightens me."

"You? Why should it frighten you?"

"The pain. It makes me feel a coward. I want it to come; I want to taste life, to drain the whole cup, to understand, to feel. But that is the boy in me. I am more than half a boy, I always have been. But the woman in me: it shrinks from the ordeal."

"You talk, Tommy, as if love were something terrible."

"There are all things in it; I feel it, dad. It is life in a single draught. It frightens me."

The child was standing with her face hidden behind her hands. Old Peter, always very bad at lying, stood silent, not knowing what consolation to concoct. The shadow passed, and Tommy's laughing eyes looked out again.

"Haven't you anything to do, dad—outside, I mean?"

"You want to get rid of me?"

"Well, I've nothing else to occupy me till the proofs come in. I'm going to practise, hard."

"I think I'll turn over my article on the Embankment," said Peter.

"There's one thing you all of you ought to be grateful to me for," laughed Tommy, as she seated herself at the piano. "I do induce you all to take more fresh air than otherwise you would."

Tommy, left alone, set herself to her task with the energy and thoroughness that were characteristic of her. Struggling with complicated scales, Tommy bent her eyes closer and closer over the pages of Czerny's Exercises. Glancing up to turn a page, Tommy, to her surprise, met the eyes of a stranger. They were brown eyes, their expression sympathetic. Below them, looking golden with the sunlight falling on it, was a moustache and beard cut short in Vandyke fashion, not altogether hiding a pleasant mouth, about the corners of which lurked a smile.

"I beg your pardon," said the stranger. "I knocked three times. Perhaps you did not hear me?"

"No, I didn't," confessed Tommy, closing the book of Czerny's Exercises, and rising with chin at an angle that, to anyone acquainted with the chart of Tommy's temperament, might have suggested the advisability of seeking shelter.

"This is the editorial office of Good Humour, is it not?" inquired the stranger.

"It is."

"Is the editor in?"

"The editor is out."

"The sub-editor?" suggested the stranger.

"I am the sub-editor."

The stranger raised his eyebrows. Tommy, on the contrary, lowered hers.

"Would you mind glancing through that?" The stranger drew from his pocket a folded manuscript. "It will not take you a moment. I ought, of course, to have sent it through the post; but I am so tired of sending things through the post."

The stranger's manner was compounded of dignified impudence combined with pathetic humility. His eyes both challenged and pleaded. Tommy held out her hand for the paper and retired with it behind the protection of the big editorial desk that, flanked on one side by a screen and on the other by a formidable revolving bookcase, stretched fortress-like across the narrow room. The stranger remained standing.

"Yes. It's pretty," criticised the sub-editor. "Worth printing, perhaps, not worth paying for."

"Not merely a—a nominal sum, sufficient to distinguish it from the work of the amateur?"

Tommy pursed her lips. "Poetry is quite a drug in the market. We can get as much as we want of it for nothing."

"Say half a crown," suggested the stranger.

Tommy shot a swift glance across the desk, and for the first time saw the whole of him. He was clad in a threadbare, long, brown ulster—long, that is, it would have been upon an ordinary man, but the stranger happening to be remarkably tall, it appeared on him ridiculously short, reaching only to his knees. Round his neck and tucked into his waistcoat, thus completely hiding the shirt and collar he may have been wearing or may not, was carefully arranged a blue silk muffler. His hands, which were bare, looked blue and cold. Yet the black frock-coat and waistcoat and French grey trousers bore the unmistakable cut of a first-class tailor and fitted him to perfection. His hat, which he had rested on the desk, shone resplendent, and the handle of his silk umbrella was an eagle's head in gold, with two small rubies for the eyes.

"You can leave it if you like," consented Tommy. "I'll speak to the editor about it when he returns."

"You won't forget it?" urged the stranger.

"No," answered Tommy. "I shall not forget it."

Her black eyes were fixed upon the stranger without her being aware of it. She had dropped unconsciously into her "stocktaking" attitude.

"Thank you very much," said the stranger. "I will call again to-morrow."

The stranger, moving backward to the door, went out.

Tommy sat with her face between her hands. Czerny's Exercises lay neglected.

"Anybody called?" asked Peter Hope.

"No," answered Tommy. "Oh, just a man. Left this—not bad."

"The old story," mused Peter, as he unfolded the manuscript. "We all of us begin with poetry. Then we take to prose romances; poetry doesn't pay. Finally, we write articles: 'How to be Happy though Married,' 'What shall we do with our Daughters?' It is life summarised. What is it all about?"

"Oh, the usual sort of thing," explained Tommy. "He wants half a crown for it."

"Poor devil! Let him have it."

"That's not business," growled Tommy.

"Nobody will ever know," said Peter. "We'll enter it as 'telegrams.'"

The stranger called early the next day, pocketed his half-crown, and left another manuscript—an essay. Also he left behind him his gold-handled umbrella, taking away with him instead an old alpaca thing Clodd kept in reserve for exceptionally dirty weather. Peter pronounced the essay usable.

"He has a style," said Peter; "he writes with distinction. Make an appointment for me with him."

Clodd, on missing his umbrella, was indignant.

"What's the good of this thing to me?" commented Clodd. "Sort of thing for a dude in a pantomime! The fellow must be a blithering ass!"

Tommy gave to the stranger messages from both when next he called. He appeared more grieved than surprised concerning the umbrellas.

"You don't think Mr. Clodd would like to keep this umbrella in exchange for his own?" he suggested.

"Hardly his style," explained Tommy.

"It's very peculiar," said the stranger, with a smile. "I have been trying to get rid of this umbrella for the last three weeks. Once upon a time, when I preferred to keep my own umbrella, people used to take it by mistake, leaving all kinds of shabby things behind them in exchange. Now, when I'd really like to get quit of it, nobody will have it."

"Why do you want to get rid of it?" asked Tommy. "It looks a very good umbrella."

"You don't know how it hampers me," said the stranger. "I have to live up to it. It requires a certain amount of resolution to enter a cheap restaurant accompanied by that umbrella. When I do, the waiters draw my attention to the most expensive dishes and recommend me special brands of their so-called champagne. They seem quite surprised if I only want a chop and a glass of beer. I haven't always got the courage to disappoint them. It is really becoming quite a curse to me. If I use it to stop a 'bus, three or four hansoms dash up and quarrel over me. I can't do anything I want to do. I want to live simply and inexpensively: it will not let me."

Tommy laughed. "Can't you lose it?"

The stranger laughed also. "Lose it! You have no idea how honest people are. I hadn't myself. The whole world has gone up in my estimation within the last few weeks. People run after me for quite long distances and force it into my hand—people on rainy days who haven't got umbrellas of their own. It is the same with this hat." The stranger sighed as he took it up. "I am always trying to get off with something reasonably shabby in exchange for it. I am always found out and stopped."

"Why don't you pawn them?" suggested the practicable Tommy.

The stranger regarded her with admiration.

"Do you know, I never thought of that," said the stranger. "Of course. What a good idea! Thank you so much."

The stranger departed, evidently much relieved.

"Silly fellow," mused Tommy. "They won't give him a quarter of the value, and he will say: 'Thank you so much,' and be quite contented." It worried Tommy a good deal that day, the thought of that stranger's helplessness.

The stranger's name was Richard Danvers. He lived the other side of Holborn, in Featherstone Buildings, but much of his time came to be spent in the offices of Good Humour.

Peter liked him. "Full of promise," was Peter's opinion. "His criticism of that article of mine on 'The Education of Woman' showed both sense and feeling. A scholar and a thinker."

Flipp, the office-boy (spelt Philip), liked him; and Flipp's attitude, in general, was censorial. "He's all right," pronounced Flipp; "nothing stuck-up about him. He's got plenty of sense, lying hidden away."

Miss Ramsbotham liked him. "The men—the men we think about at all," explained Miss Ramsbotham—"may be divided into two classes: the men we ought to like, but don't; and the men there is no particular reason for our liking, but that we do. Personally I could get very fond of your friend Dick. There is nothing whatever attractive about him except himself."

Even Tommy liked him in her way, though at times she was severe with him.

"If you mean a big street," grumbled Tommy, who was going over proofs, "why not say a big street? Why must you always call it a 'main artery'?"

"I am sorry," apologised Danvers. "It is not my own idea. You told me to study the higher-class journals."

"I didn't tell you to select and follow all their faults. Here it is again. Your crowd is always a 'hydra-headed monster'; your tea 'the cup that cheers but not inebriates.'"

"I am afraid I am a deal of trouble to you," suggested the staff.

"I am afraid you are," agreed the sub-editor.

"Don't give me up," pleaded the staff. "I misunderstood you, that is all. I will write English for the future."

"Shall be glad if you will," growled the sub-editor.

Dick Danvers rose. "I am so anxious not to get what you call 'the sack' from here."

The sub-editor, mollified, thought the staff need be under no apprehension, provided it showed itself teachable.

"I have been rather a worthless fellow, Miss Hope," confessed Dick Danvers. "I was beginning to despair of myself till I came across you and your father. The atmosphere here—I don't mean the material atmosphere of Crane Court—is so invigorating: its simplicity, its sincerity. I used to have ideals. I tried to stifle them. There is a set that sneers at all that sort of thing. Now I see that they are good. You will help me?"

Every woman is a mother. Tommy felt for the moment that she wanted to take this big boy on her knee and talk to him for his good. He was only an overgrown lad. But so exceedingly overgrown! Tommy had to content herself with holding out her hand. Dick Danvers grasped it tightly.

Clodd was the only one who did not approve of him.

"How did you get hold of him?" asked Clodd one afternoon, he and Peter alone in the office.

"He came. He came in the usual way," explained Peter.

"What do you know about him?"

"Nothing. What is there to know? One doesn't ask for a character with a journalist."

"No, I suppose that wouldn't work. Found out anything about him since?"

"Nothing against him. Why so suspicious of everybody?"

"Because you are just a woolly lamb and want a dog to look after you. Who is he? On a first night he gives away his stall and sneaks into the pit. When you send him to a picture-gallery, he dodges the private view and goes on the first shilling day. If an invitation comes to a public dinner, he asks me to go and eat it for him and tell him what it's all about. That doesn't suggest the frank and honest journalist, does it?"

"It is unusual, it certainly is unusual," Peter was bound to admit.

"I distrust the man," said Clodd. "He's not our class. What is he doing here?"

"I will ask him, Clodd; I will ask him straight out."

"And believe whatever he tells you."

"No, I shan't."

"Then what's the good of asking him?"

"Well, what am I to do?" demanded the bewildered Peter.

"Get rid of him," suggested Clodd.

"Get rid of him?"

"Get him away! Don't have him in and out of the office all day long-looking at her with those collie-dog eyes of his, arguing art and poetry with her in that cushat-dove voice of his. Get him clean away—if it isn't too late already."

"Nonsense," said Peter, who had turned white, however. "She's not that sort of girl."

"Not that sort of girl!" Clodd had no patience with Peter Hope, and told him so. "Why are there never inkstains on her fingers now? There used to be. Why does she always keep a lemon in her drawer? When did she last have her hair cut? I'll tell you if you care to know—the week before he came, five months ago. She used to have it cut once a fortnight: said it tickled her neck. Why does she jump on people when they call her Tommy and tell them that her name is Jane? It never used to be Jane. Maybe when you're a bit older you'll begin to notice things for yourself."

Clodd jammed his hat on his head and flung himself down the stairs.

Peter, slipping out a minute later, bought himself an ounce of snuff.

"Fiddle-de-dee!" said Peter as he helped himself to his thirteenth pinch. "Don't believe it. I'll sound her. I shan't say a word—I'll just sound her."

Peter stood with his back to the fire. Tommy sat at her desk, correcting proofs of a fanciful story: The Man Without a Past.

"I shall miss him," said Peter; "I know I shall."

"Miss whom?" demanded Tommy.

"Danvers," sighed Peter. "It always happens so. You get friendly with a man; then he goes away—abroad, back to America, Lord knows where. You never see him again."

Tommy looked up. There was trouble in her face.

"How do you spell 'harassed'?" questioned Tommy! "two r's or one."

"One r," Peter informed her, "two s's."

"I thought so." The trouble passed from Tommy's face.

"You don't ask when he's going, you don't ask where he's going," complained Peter. "You don't seem to be interested in the least."

"I was going to ask, so soon as I had finished correcting this sheet," explained Tommy. "What reason does he give?"

Peter had crossed over and was standing where he could see her face illumined by the lamplight.

"It doesn't upset you—the thought of his going away, of your never seeing him again?"

"Why should it?" Tommy answered his searching gaze with a slightly puzzled look. "Of course, I'm sorry. He was becoming useful. But we couldn't expect him to stop with us always, could we?"

Peter, rubbing his hands, broke into a chuckle. "I told him 'twas all fiddlesticks. Clodd, he would have it you were growing to care for the fellow."

"For Dick Danvers?" Tommy laughed. "Whatever put that into his head?"

"Oh, well, there were one or two little things that we had noticed."

"We?"

"I mean that Clodd had noticed."

I'm glad it was Clodd that noticed them, not you, dad, thought Tommy to herself. They'd have been pretty obvious if you had noticed them.

"It naturally made me anxious," confessed Peter. "You see, we know absolutely nothing of the fellow."

"Absolutely nothing," agreed Tommy.

"He may be a man of the highest integrity. Personally, I think he is. I like him. On the other hand, he may be a thorough-paced scoundrel. I don't believe for a moment that he is, but he may be. Impossible to say."

"Quite impossible," agreed Tommy.

"Considered merely as a journalist, it doesn't matter. He writes well. He has brains. There's an end of it."

"He is very painstaking," agreed Tommy.

"Personally," added Peter, "I like the fellow." Tommy had returned to her work.

Of what use was Peter in a crisis of this kind? Peter couldn't scold. Peter couldn't bully. The only person to talk to Tommy as Tommy knew she needed to be talked to was one Jane, a young woman of dignity with sense of the proprieties.

"I do hope that at least you are feeling ashamed of yourself," remarked Jane to Tommy that same night, as the twain sat together in their little bedroom.

"Done nothing to be ashamed of," growled Tommy.

"Making a fool of yourself openly, for everybody to notice."

"Clodd ain't everybody. He's got eyes at the back of his head. Sees things before they happen."

"Where's your woman's pride: falling in love with a man who has never spoken to you, except in terms of the most ordinary courtesy."

"I'm not in love with him."

"A man about whom you know absolutely nothing."

"Not in love with him."

"Where does he come from? Who is he?"

"I don't know, don't care; nothing to do with me."

"Just because of his soft eyes, and his wheedling voice, and that half- caressing, half-devotional manner of his. Do you imagine he keeps it specially for you? I gave you credit for more sense."

"I'm not in love with him, I tell you. He's down on his luck, and I'm sorry for him, that's all."

"And if he is, whose fault was it, do you think?"

"It doesn't matter. We are none of us saints. He's trying to pull himself together, and I respect him for it. It's our duty to be charitable and kind to one another in this world!"