at we can fairly assume that my creditors are sportsmen. At any rate,
they must have the benefit of the doubt. That being so, I put my own
name in the hat and draw against them. If I'm in the first three I get
my new coats."

"But----"

"Not a word." I slipped noiselessly out of the room and came back with
Henry's Homburg. In less than five minutes everything was prepared.

"Now," said Edith, and she put her hand in the hat. There was a tense
silence. "(1) Glover, (2) Tobacconist, (3) Tailor. Bad luck!"

I suppressed a groan. Had I not been sitting down, I should probably
have reeled. Then, with an effort, I pulled myself together and smiled.

"Well, that's all right," I said.

"All right?"

"Certainly," I said; "I can pay off the first two."

"But what about the tailor?"

"I have thought of that," said I. "I shall make a distinction in his
favour. I shall give him an order for two coats. Surely that means more
to him than a mere settlement."

"Yes," said Edith doubtfully. "But of course you'll pay him the money?"

I laughed amazedly. "My dear girl! Either I pay his account just like
the other two, or I distinguish him by ordering the new coats. He can't
have it both ways. And I couldn't very well pay for the new coats, if
that's what you mean, before the old account is settled. You see that?"

"Yes, but still it doesn't seem----"

"Ah, perhaps not," I said, "perhaps not, at first sight. I hardly saw it
myself at first. It was really a clever idea of yours."

Edith brightened visibly. "Yes, wasn't it?" she said.

* * * * *

AN EPIC FROM THE PROVINCES.

My dear Charles,--I know that from your superior standpoint as a
Londoner you are disposed to regard us as dwellers in a quiet backwater,
unswayed by the currents of political strife, but you must not imagine
that the stirring events of the past few weeks have failed to leave
their mark on the life of our little town. A study of the Press--that
faithful mirror of our time--would quickly convince you to the contrary.

The Press, as you know, is here represented by _The Signal_, a fine old
weekly journal of inflexible Unionist views. Well, last week, rising on
a wave of enthusiasm, _The Signal_ burst into poetry.

_The Gun Runners_, it is called, by "Cecilia Merrifield."

The air is still, the night is dark;
Along the harbour side
There stands a silent, waiting park
Of motors, full inside.

That is the op