aid the Nilghai,
upheaving his bulk from behind Torpenhow's shoulder and waving a sheaf
of half-dry manuscript. 'Dick, it is of common report that you are
suffering from swelled head.'

'Halloo, Nilghai. Back again? How are the Balkans and all the little
Balkans? One side of your face is out of drawing, as usual.'

'Never mind that. I am commissioned to smite you in print. Torpenhow
refuses from false delicacy. I've been overhauling the pot-boilers in
your studio. They are simply disgraceful.'

'Oho! that's it, is it? If you think you can slate me, you're wrong. You
can only describe, and you need as much room to turn in, on paper, as a
P. and O. cargo-boat. But continue, and be swift. I'm going to bed.'

'H'm! h'm! h'm! The first part only deals with your pictures. Here's
the peroration: "For work done without conviction, for power wasted on
trivialities, for labour expended with levity for the deliberate purpose
of winning the easy applause of a fashion-driven public----" 'That's
"His Last Shot," second edition. Go on.'

'----"public, there remains but one end,--the oblivion that is preceded
by toleration and cenotaphed with contempt. From that fate Mr. Heldar
has yet to prove himself out of danger.'

'Wow--wow--wow--wow--wow!' said Dick, profanely. 'It's a clumsy ending
and vile journalese, but it's quite true. And yet,'--he sprang to his
feet and snatched at the manuscript,--'you scarred, deboshed, battered
old gladiator! you're sent out when a war begins, to minister to the
blind, brutal, British public's bestial thirst for blood. They have
no arenas now, but they must have special correspondents. You're a fat
gladiator who comes up through a trap-door and talks of what he's seen.
You stand on precisely the same level as an energetic bishop, an affable
actress, a devastating cyclone, or--mine own sweet self. And you
presume to lecture me about my work! Nilghai, if it were worth while I'd
caricature you in four papers!'

The Nilghai winced. He had not thought of this.

'As it is, I shall take this stuff and tear it small--so!' The
manuscript fluttered in slips down the dark well of the staircase. 'Go
home, Nilghai,' said Dick; 'go home to your lonely little bed, and leave
me in peace. I am about to turn in till to-morrow.'

'Why, it isn't seven yet!' said Torpenhow, with amazement.

'It shall be two in the morning, if I choose,' said Dick, backing to the
studio door. 'I go to grapple with a serious crisis