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thing but smudges remained. He laughed heartily over his meal, I can tell you, and so enjoyed the whimsical fancy, that it did him more good than a dozen chops would have done. He was comically concerned at the thought that he had eaten bone and all. I wonder it didn't stick in my throat and choke me,' he said; 'must be more careful next time.' The occasions were not few on which he made light of his reverses thus: he seasoned his bread-and-apples with many such painted dishes, and amused himself sometimes by saying that his chop or his steak was underdone or burnt up. He lived rarely during these days: had pine-apples when they were out of season, pears at a guinea apiece, grapes from the hot-house, and every luxury he could think of. Then, going to the shop-window in which his sketches had been exhibited, he saw that they were gone. It gave him a shock. He had put what he considered to be a ridiculously low price upon them-ten shillings apiece. Perhaps he sold them for more,' thought Felix, and entered the shop with a jaunty air. The shopkeeper gave him goodday. It was best to get rid of 'em,' he said; 'they were blocking up the window, so I took an offer for them.'

'How much ?' asked Felix. 'Sketches are a drug,' said the shopkeeper, fencing.

'I ought to have taken them to a chemist, then,' observed Felix. The shopkeeper stared; he had no sense of humour.

'I took seven-and-six for the pair,' said the shopkeeper, and then defended himself without being accused, by adding, 'and a good price too, I consider it.'

Felix looked at the shopkeeper with twinkling eyes.

Thank you, good sir,' he said; 'I owe you one.'

'Don't mention it,' replied the shopkeeper, thinking he had got hold of a queer customer; 'here's your share-three-and-ninepence.'

Felix received it, and looked at the shopkeeper with an odd smile on his lips. And when he was in his room, paid the man the one he owed him by drawing caricatures of him, and suddenly developed a talent which, but for this small circumstance, might have been hidden under a bushel. With a fine sense of humour (which he was not afraid of displaying under the shopkeeper's very nose, seeing that the man did not possess the discriminative affection), Felix, the following day, took to the shop a caricature of the shopkeeper himself, in crayons, with which his patron was so tickled, not seeing the joke, that he bought it out of hand, and Felix was the richer by a crown. The joke, however, told against Felix in a certain way, for the shopkeeper would have readily given more for it; but then Felix was conscientious, and did not set too high a price upon the man. Felix dashed off a couple of other caricatures, and sold them likewise. The scene of one was laid at a narrow luncheon-counter, which he had visited. There were three barmaids serving, but only the backs of their heads could be seen. There is no need to say that this back view was imposing. The comicality of the sketch was in the faces of the eaters, with which the narrow counter was lined. They were depicted eating their luncheons after the fashion of their various temperaments. Some were solemn, some were farcical; the face of one was buried in a pint-pot: all were grotesque. The scene of the other was a street on a rainy day. A languid swell, six feet high, was languidly holding an umbrella over his head, and a street Arab, two feet and a half high, was running by his side, crying, 'Shall I 'old

yer umbrellar up, sir?' If Felix had been fertile in subjects, he might have done well in this line; but it was not every day that he could get a new idea, and he was above copying old ones. Then came the incident of the fire, and the acceptance of his account of it by the newspaper. He was fortunate in picking up other incidents, and made capital out of them. He grew hopeful, and began to make acquaintances. No money had ever been so sweet to him as the little money he was earning.

About this time came a rare stroke of good fortune. Mention has been made of a friend with whom he had travelled abroad, and who came home with him. Felix was in the gallery of a theatre one night, when he saw this friend in the stalls. Their eyes met, and they recognised each other. Felix made no sign, the chasm between stalls and gallery was so deep and wide. But when the piece was over Felix hurried to the door of the theatre, wondering if his friend would try to find him out. By good chance they met in the crowd; his friend had been hunting for him. 'Felix, old fellow!' 'Charley, old boy!

I thought I wasn't mistaken, Felix; but I was surprised to see you up there!'

Felix smiled. Funds low, old boy. Been long in London ?'

'A month; can't tear myself away. Isn't it glorious? Come and have some supper.'

Nothing loth, for they really had been friends, Felix took Charley's arm, and they made a capital supper, laughing and joking and quizzing as they had done in the old times.

But I say, old fellow,' said Charley, tell us about it. What's up?

'I was,' cried Felix merrily-he was in the gayest of humours, for

the circumstance of Charley looking for him after the play to shake hands with him had gladdened his heart-high up, eh? And only sixpence! You and I have been in queerer places, haven't we, old boy?'

And they fell-to again fishing up pleasant memories from the past. They were supping together in Charley's room at the very hotel which Felix had patronised when he first came to London.

'The waiter seems to know you, Felix,' said Charley.

'I was a lodger here once, and played the part of Grand Bashaw with twopence-ha'penny in my pocket. When my twopence -hapenny was spent, I fled.'

'An honourable retreat, I'll swear,' remarked Charley.

Felix twirled his cigar, and puffed out royally.

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And now, old fellow, I must know all about you.'

Felix told his friend all; of his quarrel with his father, softening that part of the story, and taking much blame to himself; of his quitting his home for ever and ever, never more to return, with his twopence-ha'penny in his purse; of his coming to London to conquer the world; of his failure; of his funds running out; and of his taking to the arts for a living. Only casually did he mention Lily, but his heart was so full of tenderness for her, that the few words he uttered respecting her were rightly interpreted by his friend.

'Felix, you are in love.'

Felix puffed away in silence, and looked into the fire.

'Come, old fellow,' continued Charley, we used to have no secrets; we shared and shared, you remember.'

'Well, Charley,' replied Felix, 'I have kept no secret from you. You know this one, at all events, and you know it from me.

But

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'Are you sure?'

Felix laughed, rather boisterously.

'That won't do, old boy,' he said; no beating about the bush between us two. The grog's confoundedly strong.' It must have been, for it made his eyes water.

'Look here, Charley, I want money-badly; but I must earn it. Now, if you could help me to anything in the newspaper way.

Charley broke in here with I can, by Jove! You can do newspaper correspondence?'

Felix nodded excitedly.

'Well,' continued Charley, enthusiastically, 'down our way we've a newspaper, of course. What's an Englishman without a newspaper? Why, they start them in the Bush! Now, between you and me— -it mustn't go farther, mind-my dad is part proprietor, under the rose. What a glorious thing it would be if we could get a London correspondent, who moves in the best society' Charley winked, and Felix responded-who is hand-andglove with all the political nobs and the literary swells; who is behind the scenes everywhere; who knows all the news, and can serve it up piping hot and spicy! Now, then, what do you say? The Penny Whistle is only a weekly, and we could only spare two columns to our London Special.'

'If you are really serious,' said Felix slowly, his colour rising, for he saw a great chance in the proposal, and the Penny Whistle can afford a special London correspondent, I could send a capital two columns every week, and I would take care to be on the look-out for anything special. Could it afford a pound a week, Charley?'

A pound a week, old fellow!' cried Charley. It's too little !'

'It is enough,' said Felix firmly; 'I could not accept more under the circumstances. If the proprietors write to me to that effect, I shall only be too happy to accept.'

In a fortnight from that time Felix was engaged as London correspondent at the sum fixed by himself. He ran to Old Wheels, and told the good news. He was really beginning to open his oyster.

CHAPTER XXX.

JIM PODMORE HAS A 'DAZE.'

6

IN the mean time, some of the humble personages in our drama, being fixed in certain grooves, remain there uneventfully, the only changes that occur to them being marked by the hand of time. Mr. Podmore continues in his situation on the railway, works as hard and as long hours as ever, comes home as tired as ever, but more often now with a daze' upon him, as he expresses it. This daze'-he has no idea how he got hold of the word-gives him terrible frights at times, and causes him to be oblivious of what passes around him. It never comes upon him but when he is dead-beat, when what is known as a fair day's work is turned into a foul day's work by the abominable system which coins large dividends out of its servants' health, and which taxes their strength so

unfairly as to bring old age upon men long before it is naturally due. Jim Podmore is fearful to speak of this daze' to any one, for if it were known to the officers of the company, short shrift would be his portion. Such a sympathetic affection as humanity holds no place in the schemes and calculations of railway directors. Given so much blood and bone and muscle: how much strain can they bear? This ascertained, apply the strain to its utmost, until blood, bone, and muscle can no longer bear it, and fail, naturally, to perform their task. Then throw aside, and obtain fresh. Jim Podmore would not thus have expressed it, but the conclusion at which he had arrived is the same as the conclusion here set down. The only person who knows of his fast-growing infirmity is his wife. He confides to her the various stages of this daze;' how he goes to work of a morning pretty fresh, and how, when his fair day's work is being turned into a foul day's work by the directors' strain, he begins to tire. 'I seem to-fall asleep-- gradually,' he says, 'although I hear everything about me. All the wear and tear-of the day-all the noise-all the slamming and shouting-all the whistling and puffing-seem to get into the middle of my head-and buzz there as if they was bees. And so I go off-with this buzzing. Then I jump up—in a fright—just in time, old woman! to shift the points-but I'm all of a trembleand feel fit to die. Then I fall off -into a daze again—and the buzzing goes on-in my head. Then Snap-good old dog!'-(Snap licks the hand that pats its head) pulls at my trousers-sometimes-and wakes me. Suppose I shouldn'trouse myself in time-some time or other and something was to occur! What then, old woman? I wake up in the middle of a night

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wouldn't do for me-to fall ill even-and be laid up—for a week or two. That might do me good —but it wouldn't do. Where's the money to come from? We couldn't lay our hands-on a spare half a crown-to save our lives.' Which was a fact. Capital, in the majority of instances, pays labour just such a sum for its blood, bone, and muscle as is barely sufficient to live upon; every farthing flies away for urgent necessities without which labour would starve, with which it barely manages to preserve its health. The result is that labour grows inevitably into a state of pauperism hence workhouseswhich are not known in the world's new lands. May they never be known! They are plague-spots, poisonous to the healthful blood of cities.

However, until a change for the worse comes, this small family of three, Mr. and Mrs. Podmore and their little Pollypod, live in their one room, and are more often happy there than otherwise. Felix frequently pays them visits, and learns from Jim and Mrs. Podmore many particulars concerning the railway system of overworking its servants, which he works up with good effect in his newspaper letters and in other ways. Felix likes to get hold of a good public grievance, and has already learnt how to make capital of it. But, indeed, he could not write earnestly on any matter in which his sympathies were not in some way engaged. Pollypod enjoys herself greatly; she and Lizzie are firm friends, and the consequence is that she often accompanies Lily to Lizzie's house in the country,' and spends the day there.

Old Wheels likes Lily to take the child with her; and, apart from her fondness for Pollypod, Lily is glad to please her grandfather in this

way.

The Gribbles, senior and junior, go on as usual. Gribble junior maintains his ground, and is even prospering a little in his umbrella hospital, which is generally pretty full of patients. He 'keeps moving' with his tongue, and is continually rattling away complacently on. this subject and that. He likes Felix, who indeed is a favourite with them all, but he has contracted an inveterate dislike to Mr. Sheldrake, and never loses an opportunity of saying an ill word concerning that gentleman. Gribble senior keeps his chandler's shop open, but the trade continues to fall off wofully, and the old shopkeeper is more rampant than ever on the subject of cooperative stores, which he declares will be the ruin of the country.

Alfred grows more and more infatuated with racing; he meets with reverse after reverse, adopts system after system, discovers continually new methods of winning infallibly, is buoyed-up and elated one day with the prospect of winning a great sum, and groans with despair the next day when the result is made known. Of course he does not always lose; he wins small sums occasionally, but they are like raindrops in the sea. Week after week passes, month after month flies by, and he is sinking lower and lower. David Sheldrake stands his friend still; still supplies him with money and takes his signature for the amount, and, what with letters and documents and information of how matters stand with Alfred at the office of his employers, Messrs. Tickle and Flint, holds such a dangerous power over the infatuated young man as can crush him at any moment. Here a defence

He

must be set up for David Sheldrake, otherwise he might be taken for a fool for parting with his money so freely to a young fellow for whom he cared no more than for the snuff of a candle. David Sheldrake knew every trick of the game he was playing. Madly infatuated as he was with Lily, he was too completely a man of the world to throw away the sums of money he advanced to Alfred from time to time. But the fact of it was, he got it all back; what he gave with one hand he received with the other. made an express stipulation with Alfred that Con Staveley should be the medium of all the young fellow's racing speculations; so that no sooner did David Sheldrake lend, than Con Staveley swallowed. Therefore, although in the aggregate Alfred owed David Sheldrake a large sum of money, the astute David was really very little out of pocket. He was aware that, in other ways, Alfred was more extravagant than his earnings at Messrs. Tickle and Flint warranted; but where he got the money from to supply these extravagances was no business of David Sheldrake's. Alfred did not get it from him. But in Alfred's moments of remorse, when he was pouring into David Sheldrake's ears accounts of his misfortunes, of how he was trapped by this tipster or deceived by that prophet, or swindled in some other way, many a chance expression of terror escaped from him, of which David Sheldrake made good use in his reflections— putting this and that together until he had arrived at the truth, and knew for a certainty that Alfred was robbing his employers. He held in his hand Alfred's safety; a word from him would be the young fellow's destruction; and the power which this gave him over Lily was so complete that he would not have parted with it upon easy terms. He never failed of impress

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