of the fashioning of paul.

loves of my youth, whither are ye vanished? tubby of the golden locks; langley of the dented nose; shamus stout of heart but faint of limb, easy enough to “down,” but utterly impossible to make to cry: “i give you best;” neal the thin; and dicky, “dicky dick” the fat; ballett of the weeping eye; beau bunnie lord of many ties, who always fought in black kid gloves; all ye others, ye whose names i cannot recollect, though i well remember ye were very dear to me, whither are ye vanished, where haunt your creeping ghosts? had one told me then there would come a day i should never see again your merry faces, never hear your wild, shrill whoop of greeting, never feel again the warm clasp of your inky fingers, never fight again nor quarrel with you, never hate you, never love you, could i then have borne the thought, i wonder?

once, methinks, not long ago, i saw you, tubby, you with whom so often i discovered the north pole, probed the problem of the sources of the nile, (have you forgotten, tubby, our secret camping ground beside the lonely waters of the regent's park canal, where discussing our frugal meal of toasted elephant's tongue—by the uninitiated mistakable for jumbles—there would break upon our trained hunters' ear the hungry lion or tiger's distant roar, mingled with the melancholy, long-drawn growling of the polar bear, growing ever in volume and impatience until half-past four precisely; and we would snatch our rifles, and with stealthy tread and every sense alert make our way through the jungle—until stopped by the spiked fencing round the zoological gardens?) i feel sure it was you, in spite of your side whiskers and the greyness and the thinness of your once clustering golden locks. you were hurrying down throgmorton street chained to a small black bag. i should have stopped you, but that i had no time to spare, having to catch a train at liverpool street and to get shaved on the way. i wonder if you recognised me: you looked at me a little hard, i thought. gallant, kindly hearted shamus, you who fought once for half an hour to save a frog from being skinned; they tell me you are now an income tax assessor; a man, it is reported, with power of disbelief unusual among even inland revenue circles; of little faith, lacking in the charity that thinketh no evil. may providence direct you to other districts than to mine.

so time, nature's handy-man, bustles to and fro about the many rooms, making all things tidy, covers with sweet earth the burnt volcanoes, turns to use the debris of the ages, smoothes again the ground above the dead, heals again the beech bark marred by lovers.

in the beginning i was far from being a favourite with my schoolmates, and this was the first time trouble came to dwell with me. later, we men and women generally succeed in convincing ourselves that whatever else we may have missed in life, popularity in a greater or less degree we have at all events secured, for without it altogether few of us, i think, would care to face existence. but where the child suffers keener than the man is in finding himself exposed to the cold truth without the protecting clothes of self-deception. my ostracism was painfully plain to me, and, as was my nature, i brooded upon it in silence.

“can you run?” asked of me one day a most important personage whose name i have forgotten. he was head of the lower fourth, a tall youth with a nose like a beak, and the manner of one born to authority. he was the son of a draper in the edgware road, and his father failing, he had to be content for a niche in life with a lower clerkship in the civil service. but to us youngsters he always appeared a duke of wellington in embryo, and under other circumstances might, perhaps, have become one.

“yes,” i answered. as a matter of fact it was my one accomplishment, and rumour of it maybe had reached him.

“run round the playground twice at your fastest,” he commanded; “let me see you.”

i clinched my fists and charged off. how grateful i was to him for having spoken to me, the outcast of the class, thus publicly, i could only show by my exertions to please him. when i drew up before him i was panting hard, but i could see that he was satisfied.

“why don't the fellows like you?” he asked bluntly.

if only i could have stepped out of my shyness, spoken my real thoughts! “o lord of the lower fourth! you upon whom success—the only success in life worth having—has fallen as from the laps of the gods! you to whom all lower fourth hearts turn! tell me the secret of this popularity. how may i acquire it? no price can be too great for me to pay for it. vain little egoist that i am, it is the sum of my desires, and will be till the long years have taught me wisdom. the want of it embitters all my days. why does silence fall upon their chattering groups when i draw near? why do they drive me from their games? what is it shuts me out from them, repels them from me? i creep into the corners and shed scalding tears of shame. i watch with envious eyes and ears all you to whom the wondrous gift is given. what is your secret? is it tommy's swagger? then i will swagger, too, with anxious heart, with mingled fear and hope. but why—why, seeing that in tommy they admire it, do they wait for me with imitations of cock-a-doodle-do, strut beside me mimicking a pouter pigeon? is it dicky's playfulness?—dicky, who runs away with their balls, snatches their caps from off their heads, springs upon their backs when they are least expecting it?

“why should dicky's reward be laughter, and mine a bloody nose and a widened, deepened circle of dislike? i am no heavier than dicky; if anything a pound or two lighter. is it billy's friendliness? i too would fling my arms about their necks; but from me they angrily wrench themselves free. is indifference the best plan? i walk apart with step i try so hard to render careless; but none follows, no little friendly arm is slipped through mine. should one seek to win one's way by kind offices? ah, if one could! how i would fag for them. i could do their sums for them—i am good at sums—write their impositions for them, gladly take upon myself their punishments, would they but return my service with a little love and—more important still—a little admiration.”

but all i could find to say was, sulkily: “they do like me, some of them.” i dared not, aloud, acknowledge the truth.

“don't tell lies,” he answered; “you know they don't—none of them.” and i hung my head.

“i'll tell you what i'll do,” he continued in his lordly way; “i'll give you a chance. we're starting hare and hounds next saturday; you can be a hare. you needn't tell anybody. just turn up on saturday and i'll see to it. mind, you'll have to run like the devil.”

he walked away without waiting for my answer, leaving me to meet joy running towards me with outstretched hands. the great moment comes to all of us; to the politician, when the party whip slips from confabulation with the front bench to congratulate him, smiling, on his really admirable little speech; to the youthful dramatist, reading in his bed-sitting-room the managerial note asking him to call that morning at eleven; to the subaltern, beckoned to the stirrup of his chief—the moment when the sun breaks through the morning mists, and the world lies stretched before us, our way clear.

obeying orders, i gave no hint in school of the great fortune that had come to me; but hurrying home, i exploded in the passage before the front door could be closed behind me.

“i am to be a hare because i run so fast. anybody can be a hound, but there's only two hares, and they all want me. and can i have a jersey? we begin next saturday. he saw me run. i ran twice round the playground. he said i was splendid! of course, it's a great honour to be a hare. we start from hampstead heath. and may i have a pair of shoes?”

the jersey and the shoes my mother and i purchased that very day, for the fear was upon me that unless we hastened, the last blue and white striped jersey in london might be sold, and the market be empty of running shoes. that evening, before getting into bed, i dressed myself in full costume to admire myself before the glass; and from then till the end of the week, to the terror of my mother, i practised leaping over chairs, and my method of descending stairs was perilous and roundabout. but, as i explained to them, the credit of the lower fourth was at stake, and banisters and legs equally of small account as compared with fame and honour; and my father, nodding his head, supported me with manly argument; but my mother added to her prayers another line.

saturday came. the members of the hunt were mostly boys who lived in the neighbourhood; so the arrangement was that at half-past two we should meet at the turnpike gate outside the spaniards. i brought my lunch with me and ate it in regent's park, and then took the 'bus to the heath. one by one the others came up. beyond mere glances, none of them took any notice of me. i was wearing my ordinary clothes over my jersey. i knew they thought i had come merely to see them start, and i hugged to myself the dream of the surprise that was in store for them, and of which i should be the hero. he came, one of the last, our leader and chief, and i sidled up behind him and waited, while he busied himself organising and constructing.

“but we've only got one hare,” cried one of them. “we ought to have two, you know, in case one gets blown.”

“we've got two,” answered the duke. “think i don't know what i'm about? young kelver's going to be the other one.”

silence fell upon the meet.

“oh, i say, we don't want him,” at last broke in a voice. “he's a muff.”

“he can run,” explained the duke.

“let him run home,” came another voice, which was greeted with laughter.

“you'll run home in a minute yourself,” threatened the duke, “if i have any of your cheek. who's captain here—you or me? now, young 'un, are you ready?”

i had commenced unbuttoning my jacket, but my hands fell to my side. “i don't want to come,” i answered, “if they don't want me.”

“he'll get his feet wet,” suggested the boy who had spoken first. “don't spoil him, he's his mother's pet.”

“are you coming or are you not?” shouted the duke, seeing me still motionless. but the tears were coming into my eyes and would not go back. i turned my face away without speaking.

“all right, stop then,” cried the duke, who, like all authoritative people, was impatient above all things of hesitation. “here, keefe, you take the bag and be off. it'll be dark before we start.”

my substitute snatched eagerly at the chance, and away went the hares, while i, still keeping my face hid, moved slowly off.

“cry-baby!” shouted a sharp-eyed youngster.

“let him alone,” growled the duke; and i went on to where the cedars grew.

i heard them start off a few minutes later with a whoop. how could i go home, confess my disappointment, my shame? my father would be expecting me with many questions, my mother waiting for me with hot water and blankets. what explanation could i give that would not betray my miserable secret?

it was a chill, dismal afternoon, the heath deserted, a thin rain commencing. i slipped off my shirt and jacket, and rolling them under my arm, trotted off alone, hare and hounds combined in one small carcass, to chase myself sadly by myself.

i see it still, that pathetically ridiculous little figure, jogging doggedly over the dank fields. mile after mile it runs, the little idiot; jumping—sometimes falling into the muddy ditches: it seems anxious rather than otherwise to get itself into a mess; scrambling through the dripping hedges; swarming over tarry fence and slimy paling. on, on it pants—through bishop's wood, by tangled churchyard bottom, where now the railway shrieks; down sloppy lanes, bordering muswell hill, where now stand rows of jerry-built, prim villas. at intervals it stops an instant to dab its eyes with its dingy little rag of a handkerchief, to rearrange the bundle under its arm, its chief anxiety to keep well out of sight of chance wanderers, to dodge farmhouses, to dart across highroads when nobody is looking. and so tear-smeared and mud-bespattered up the long rise of darkening crouch end lane, where to-night the electric light blazes from a hundred shops, and dead beat into the seven sisters road station, there to tear off its soaked jersey; and then home to poplar, with shameless account of the jolly afternoon that it has spent, of the admiration and the praise that it has won.

you poor, pitiful little brat! popularity? it is a shadow. turn your eyes towards it, and it shall ever run before you, escaping you. turn your back upon it, walk joyously towards the living sun, and it shall follow you. am i not right? why, then, do you look at me, your little face twisted into that quizzical grin?

when one takes service with deceit, one signs a contract that one may not break but under penalty. maybe it was good for my health, those lonely runs; but oh, they were dreary! by a process of argument not uncommon i persuaded myself that truth was a matter of mere words, that so long as i had actually gone over the ground i described i was not lying. to further satisfy my conscience, i bought a big satchel and scattered from it torn-up paper as i ran.

“and they never catch you?” asked my mother.

“oh, no, never; they never even get within sight of me.”

“be careful, dear,” would advise my mother; “don't overstrain yourself.” but i could see that she was proud of me.

and after awhile imagination came to my help, so that often i could hear behind me the sound of pursuing feet, catch through gaps in the trees a sight of a merry, host upon my trail, and would redouble my speed.

thus, but for dan, my loneliness would have been unbearable. his friendship was always there for me to creep to, the shadow of a great rock in a weary land. to this day one may always know dan's politics: they are those of the party out of power. always without question one may know the cause that he will champion, the unpopular cause; the man he will defend, the man who is down.

“you are such an un-understandable chap,” complained a fellow clubman to him once in my hearing. “i sometimes ask myself if you have any opinions at all.”

“i hate a crowd,” was dan's only confession of faith.

he never claimed anything from me in return for his affection; he was there for me to hold to when i wanted him. when, baffled in all my attempts to win the affections of others, i returned to him for comfort, he gave it me, without even relieving himself of friendly advice. when at length childish success came to me and i needed him less, he was neither hurt nor surprised. other people—their thoughts, their actions, even when these concerned himself—never troubled him. he loved to bestow, but as to response was strangely indifferent; indeed, if anything, it bored him. his nature appeared to be that of the fountain, which fulfils itself by giving, but is unable to receive.

my popularity came to me unexpectedly after i had given up hoping for it; surprising me, annoying me. gradually it dawned upon me that my company was being sought.

“come along, kelver,” would say the spokesman of one group; “we're going part of your way home. you can walk with us.”

maybe i would go with them, but more often, before we reached the gate, the delight of my society would be claimed by a rival troop.

“he's coming with us this afternoon. he promised.”

“no, he didn't.”

“yes, he did.”

“well, he ain't, anyhow. see?”

“oh, isn't he? who says he isn't?”

“i do.”

“punch his head, dick!”

“yes, you do, jimmy blake, and i'll punch yours. come, kelver.”

i might have been some queen of beauty offered as prize for knightly contest. indeed, more than once the argument concluded thus primitively, i being carried off in triumph by the victorious party.

for a period it remained a mystery to me, until i asked explanation of norval—we called him “norval,” he being one george grampian: it was our wit. from taking joy in teasing me, norval had suddenly become one of my greatest admirers. this by itself was difficult enough to understand. he was in the second eleven, and after dan the best fighter in the lower school. if i could understand norval's change of attitude all would be plain to me; so when next time, bounding upon me in the cloakroom and slipping his arm into mine, he clamoured for my company to camden town, i put the question to him bluntly.

“why should i walk home with you? why do you want me?”

“because we like you.”

“but why do you like me?”

“why! why, because you're such a funny chap. you say such funny things.”

it struck me like a slap in the face. i had thought to reach popularity upon the ladder of heroic qualities. in all the school books i had read, leonard or marmaduke (we had a marmaduke in the lower fifth—they called him marmalade: in the school books these disasters are not contemplated), won love and admiration by reason of integrity of character, nobility of sentiment, goodness of heart, brilliance of intellect; combined maybe with a certain amount of agility, instinct in the direction of bowling, or aptitude for jumping; but such only by the way. not one of them had ever said a funny thing, either consciously or unconsciously.

“don't be disagreeable, kelver. come with us and we will let you into the team as an extra. i'll teach you batting.”

so i was to be their fool—i, dreamer of knightly dreams, aspirant to hero's fame! i craved their wonder; i had won their laughter. i had prayed for popularity; it had been granted to me—in this guise. were the gods still the heartless practical jokers poor midas had found them?

had my vanity been less i should have flung their gift back in their faces. but my thirst for approbation was too intense. i had to choose: cut capers and be followed, or walk in dignity, ignored. i chose to cut the capers. as time wore on i found myself striving to cut them quicker, quainter, thinking out funny stories, preparing ingenuous impromptus, twisting all ideas into odd expression.

i had my reward. before long my company was desired by all the school. but i was never content. i would rather have been the captain of their football club, even his deputy vice; would have given all my meed of laughter for stuttering jerry's one round of applause when in our match against highbury he knocked up his century, and so won the victory for us by just three.

till the end i never quite abandoned hope of exchanging my vine leaves for the laurels. i would rise an hour earlier in the morning to practise throwing at broomsticks set up in waste places. at another time, the sport coming into temporary fashion, i wearied body and mind for weeks in vain attempts to acquire skill on stilts. that even fat tubby could out-distance me upon them saddened my life for months.

a lad there was, a sixth form boy, one wakeham by name, if i remember rightly, who greatly envied me my gift of being able to amuse. he was of the age when the other sex begins to be of importance to a fellow, and the desire had come to him to be regarded as a star of wit among the social circles of gospel oak. need i say that by nature he was a ponderously dull boy.

one afternoon i happened to be the centre of a small group in the playground. i had been holding forth and they had been laughing. whether i had delivered myself of anything really entertaining or not i cannot say. it made no difference; they had got into the habit of laughing when i talked. sometimes i would say quite serious things on purpose; they would laugh just the same. wakeham was among them, his eyes fixed on me, watching me as boys watch a conjurer in the hope of finding out “how he does it.” later in the afternoon he slipped his arm through mine, and drew me away into an empty corner of the ground.

“i say, kelver,” he broke out, the moment we were beyond hearing, “you really are funny!”

it gave me no pleasure. if he had told me that he admired my bowling i might not have believed him, but should have loved him for it.

“so are you,” i answered savagely, “only you don't know it.”

“no, i'm not,” he replied. “wish i was. i say, kelver”—he glanced round to see that no one was within earshot—“do you think you could teach me to be funny?”

i was about to reply with conviction in the negative when an idea occurred to me. wakeham was famous among us for one thing; he could, inserting two fingers in his mouth, produce a whistle capable of confusing dogs a quarter of a mile off, and of causing people near at hand to jump from six to eighteen inches into the air.

this accomplishment of his i envied him as keenly as he envied me mine. i did not admire it; i could not see the use of it. generally speaking, it called forth irritation rather than affection. a purple-faced old gentleman, close to whose ear he once performed, promptly cuffed his head for it; and for so doing was commended by the whole street as a public benefactor. drivers of vehicles would respond by flicking at him, occasionally with success. even youth, from whom sympathy might have been expected, appeared impelled, if anything happened to be at all handy, to take it up and throw it at him. my own social circle would, i knew, regard it as a vulgar accomplishment, and even wakeham himself dared not perform it in the hearing of his own classmates. that any human being should have desired to acquire it seems incomprehensible. yet for weeks in secret i had wrestled to produce the hideous sound. why? for three reasons, so far as i can analyse this youngster of whom i am writing:

firstly, here was a means of attracting attention; secondly, it was something that somebody else could do and that he couldn't; thirdly, it was a thing for which he evidently had no natural aptitude whatever, and therefore a thing to acquire which his soul yearned the more. had a boy come across his path, clever at walking on his hands with his heels in the air, master paul kelver would in all probability have broken his neck in attempts to copy and excel. i make no apologies for the brat: i merely present him as a study for the amusement of a world of wiser boys—and men.

i struck a bargain with young wakeham; i undertook to teach him to be funny in return for his teaching me this costermonger's whistle.

each of us strove conscientiously to impart knowledge. neither of us succeeded. wakeham tried hard to be funny; i tried hard to whistle. he did all i told him; i followed his instructions implicitly. the result was the feeblest of wit and the feeblest of whistles.

“do you think anybody would laugh at that?” wakeham would pathetically enquire at the termination of his supremest effort. and honestly i would have to confess i did not think any living being would.

“how far off do you think any one could hear that?” i would demand anxiously, on recovering sufficient breath to speak at all.

“well, it would depend upon whether you knew it was coming,” wakeham would reply kindly, not wishing to discourage me.

we abandoned the scheme by mutual consent at about the end of a fortnight.

“i suppose it's something that you've got to have inside you,” i suggested to wakeham in consolation.

“i don't think the roof of your mouth can be quite the right shape for it,” concluded wakeham.

my success as story-teller, commentator, critic, jester, revived my childish ambition towards authorship. my first stirrings in this direction i cannot rightly place. i remember when very small falling into a sunk dust-bin—a deep hole, rather, into which the gardener shot his rubbish. the fall twisted my ankle so that i could not move; and the time being evening and my prison some distance from the house, my predicament loomed large before me. yet one consolation remained with me: the incident would be of value to me in the autobiography upon which i was then engaged. i can distinctly recollect lying on my back among decaying leaves and broken glass, framing my account. “on this day a strange adventure befell me. walking in the garden, all unheeding, i suddenly”—i did not want to add the truth—“tumbled into a dust-hole, six feet square, that any one but a moon calf might have seen.” i puzzled to evolve a more dignified situation. the dust-bin became a cavern, the entrance to which had been artfully concealed; the six or seven feet i had really fallen, “an endless descent, terminating in a vast and gloomy chamber.” i was divided between opposing desires: one, for rescue followed by sympathy and supper; the other, for the alarming experience of a night of terror where i lay. nature conquering art, i yelled; and the episode terminated prosaically with a warm bath and arnica. but from it i judge that desire for the woes and perils of authorship was with me somewhat early.

of my many other dreams i would speak freely, discussing them at length with sympathetic souls, but concerning this one ambition i was curiously reticent. only to two—my mother and a grey-bearded stranger—did i ever breathe a word of it. even from my father i kept it a secret, close comrades in all else though we were. he would have talked of it much and freely, dragged it into the light of day; and from this i shrank.

my talk with the stranger came about in this wise. one evening i had taken a walk to victoria park—a favourite haunt of mine at summer time. it was a fair and peaceful evening, and i fell a-wandering there in pleasant reverie, until the waning light hinted to me the question of time. i looked about me. only one human being was in sight, a man with his back towards me, seated upon a bench overlooking the ornamental water.

i drew nearer. he took no notice of me, and interested—though why, i could not say—i seated myself beside him at the other end of the bench. he was a handsome, distinguished-looking man, with wonderfully bright, clear eyes and iron-grey hair and beard. i might have thought him a sea captain, of whom many were always to be met with in that neighbourhood, but for his hands, which were crossed upon his stick, and which were white and delicate as a woman's. he turned his face and glanced at me. i fancied that his lips beneath the grey moustache smiled; and instinctively i edged a little nearer to him.

“please, sir,” i said, after awhile, “could you tell me the right time?”

“twenty minutes to eight,” he answered, looking at his watch. and his voice drew me towards him even more than had his beautiful strong face. i thanked him, and we fell back into silence.

“where do you live?” he turned and suddenly asked me.

“oh, only over there,” i answered, with a wave of my arm towards the chimney-fringed horizon behind us. “i needn't be in till half-past eight. i like this park so much,” i added, “i often come and sit here of an evening.'

“why do you like to come and sit here?” he asked. “tell me.”

“oh, i don't know,” i answered. “i think.”

i marvelled at myself. with strangers generally i was shy and silent; but the magic of his bright eyes seemed to have loosened my tongue.

i told him my name; that we lived in a street always full of ugly sounds, so that a gentleman could not think, not even in the evening time, when thought goes a-visiting.

“mamma does not like the twilight time,” i confided to him. “it always makes her cry. but then mamma is—not very young, you know, and has had a deal of trouble; and that makes a difference, i suppose.”

he laid his hand upon mine. we were sitting nearer to each other now. “god made women weak to teach us men to be tender,” he said. “but you, paul, like this 'twilight time'?”

“yes,” i answered, “very much. don't you?”

“and why do you like it?” he asked.

“oh,” i answered, “things come to you.”

“what things?”

“oh, fancies,” i explained to him. “i am going to be an author when i grow up, and write books.”

he took my hand in his and shook it gravely, and then returned it to me. “i, too, am a writer of books,” he said.

and then i knew what had drawn me to him.

so for the first time i understood the joy of talking “shop” with a fellow craftsman. i told him my favourite authors—scott, and dumas, and victor hugo; and to my delight found they were his also; he agreeing with me that real stories were the best, stories in which people did things.

“i used to read silly stuff once,” i confessed, “indian tales and that sort of thing, you know. but mamma said i'd never be able to write if i read that rubbish.”

“you will find it so all through life, paul,” he replied. “the things that are nice are rarely good for us. and what do you read now?”

“i am reading marlowe's plays and de quincey's confessions just now,” i confided to him.

“and do you understand them?”

“fairly well,” i answered. “mamma says i'll like them better as i go on. i want to learn to write very, very well indeed,” i admitted to him; “then i'll be able to earn heaps of money.”

he smiled. “so you don't believe in art for art's sake, paul?”

i was puzzled. “what does that mean?” i asked.

“it means in our case, paul,” he answered, “writing books for the pleasure of writing books, without thinking of any reward, without desiring either money or fame.”

it was a new idea to me. “do many authors do that?” i asked.

he laughed outright this time. it was a delightful laugh. it rang through the quiet park, awaking echoes; and caught by it, i laughed with him.

“hush!” he said; and he glanced round with a whimsical expression of fear, lest we might have been overheard. “between ourselves, paul,” he continued, drawing me more closely towards him and whispering, “i don't think any of us do. we talk about it. but i'll tell you this, paul; it is a trade secret and you must remember it: no man ever made money or fame but by writing his very best. it may not be as good as somebody else's best, but it is his best. remember that, paul.”

i promised i would.

“and you must not think merely of the money and the fame, paul,” he added the next moment, speaking more seriously. “money and fame are very good things, and only hypocrites pretend to despise them. but if you write books thinking only of money, you will be disappointed. it is earned easier in other ways. tell me, that is not your only idea?”

i pondered. “mamma says it is a very noble calling, authorship,” i remembered, “and that any one ought to be very proud and glad to be able to write books, because they give people happiness and make them forget things; and that one ought to be very good if one is going to be an author, so as to be worthy to help and teach others.”

“and do you try to be good, paul?” he enquired.

“yes,” i answered; “but it's very hard to be quite good—until of course you're grown up.”

he smiled, but more to himself than to me. “yes,” he said, “i suppose it is difficult to be good until you are grown up. perhaps we shall all of us be good when we're quite grown up.” which, from a gentleman with a grey beard, appeared to me a puzzling observation.

“and what else does mamma say about literature?” he asked. “can you remember?”

again i pondered, and her words came back to me. “that he who can write a great book is greater than a king; that the gift of being able to write is given to anybody in trust; that an author should never forget he is god's servant.”

he sat for awhile without speaking, his chin resting on his folded hands supported by his gold-topped cane. then he turned and laid a hand upon my shoulder, and his clear, bright eyes were close to mine.

“your mother is a wise lady, paul,” he said. “remember her words always. in later life let them come back to you; they will guide you better than the chatter of the clubs.”

“and what modern authors do you read?” he asked after a silence: “any of them—thackeray, bulwer lytton, dickens?”

“i have read 'the last of the barons,'” i told him; “i like that. and i've been to barnet and seen the church. and some of mr. dickens'.”

“and what do you think of mr. dickens?” he asked. but he did not seem very interested in the subject. he had picked up a few small stones, and was throwing them carefully into the water.

“i like him very much,” i answered; “he makes you laugh.”

“not always?” he asked. he stopped his stone-throwing, and turned sharply towards me.

“oh, no, not always,” i admitted; “but i like the funny bits best. i like so much where mr. pickwick—”

“oh, damn mr. pickwick!” he said.

“don't you like him?” i asked.

“oh, yes, i like him well enough, or used to,” he replied; “i'm a bit tired of him, that's all. does your mamma like mr.—mr. dickens?”

“not the funny parts,” i explained to him. “she thinks he is occasionally—”

“i know,” he interrupted, rather irritably, i thought; “a trifle vulgar.”

it surprised me that he should have guessed her exact words. “i don't think mamma has much sense of humour,” i explained to him. “sometimes she doesn't even see papa's jokes.”

at that he laughed again. “but she likes the other parts?” he enquired, “the parts where mr. dickens isn't—vulgar?”

“oh, yes,” i answered. “she says he can be so beautiful and tender, when he likes.”

twilight was deepening. it occurred to me to enquire of him again the time.

“just over the quarter,” he answered, looking at his watch.

“i'm so sorry,” i said. “i must go now.”

“so am i sorry, paul,” he answered. “perhaps we shall meet again. good-bye.” then as our hands touched: “you have never asked me my name, paul,” he reminded me.

“oh, haven't i?” i answered.

“no, paul,” he replied, “and that makes me think of your future with hope. you are an egotist, paul; and that is the beginning of all art.”

and after that he would not tell me his name. “perhaps next time we meet,” he said. “good-bye, paul. good luck to you!”

so i went my way. where the path winds out of sight i turned. he was still seated upon the bench, but his face was towards me, and he waved his hand to me. i answered with a wave of mine. and then the intervening boughs and bushes gradually closed in around me. and across the rising mist there rose the hoarse, harsh cry:

“all out! all out!”