lways paid his way. The greengrocer's wife passed
the time of day when not too preoccupied, and the newspaper boy no
longer clutched for his penny. Jacob generally met the melancholy man
at the corner of the avenue and walked to the station with him. And he
still grew roses and worshipped them.

On the way to the station, on this particular morning, he amazed his
friend.

"Richard," he said, "I shall not travel to the City with you to-day.
At least I shall not start with you. I shall change carriages at
Wendley, as I did once before."

"The devil!" Richard exclaimed.

They were passing the plate-glass window of a new emporium, and Jacob
paused to glance furtively at his reflection. He was an exceedingly
neat man, and his care for his clothes and person had survived two
years of impecuniosity. Nevertheless, although he passed muster well
enough to the casual observer, there were indications in his attire of
the inevitable conflict between a desire for adornment and the lack of
means to indulge it. His too often pressed trousers were thin at the
seams; his linen, though clean, was frayed; there were cracks in his
vigorously polished shoes. He looked at himself, and he was suddenly
conscious of a most amazing thrill. One of the cherished desires of
his life loomed up before him. Even Savile Row was not an
impossibility.

At the station he puzzled the booking clerk by presenting himself at
the window and demanding a first single to Liverpool Street.

The youth handed him the piece of pasteboard with a wondering glance.

"Your season ain't up yet, Mr. Pratt."

"It is not," Jacob acquiesced, "but this morning I desire to travel to
town first-class."

Whilst he waited for the train, Jacob read again the wonderful
letters, folded them up, and was ready, with an air of anticipation,
when the little train with its reversed engine came puffing around the
curve and brought its few antiquated and smoke-encrusted carriages
to a standstill. Everything went as he had hoped. In that familiar
first-class carriage, into which he stepped with beating heart, sat
Mr. Bultiwell in the farthest corner, with his two satellites, Stephen
Pedlar, the accountant, and Lionel Groome. They all stared at him in
blank bewilderment as he entered. Mr. Bultiwell, emerging from behind
the _Times_, sat with his mouth open and a black frown upon his
forehead.

"Good morning, all," Jacob remarked affably, as he sprawled in his
place and put his l