could find in the 'Post Office Directory.'

I had to pass through years of rejection, but still I wrote on, and
still I spent all my pocket-money on books, and postage-stamps, and
paper.

And at last the chance came. I was allowed to write paragraphs in the
_Weekly Dispatch_ by a friend who was a real journalist, and had a
column at his disposal to fill with gossip.

After doing the work for a month for nothing, I had the whole column
given to me, and one day I received my first guinea earned by
scribbling.

[Illustration: MR. SIMS'S DINNER PARTY]

I was a proud man when I went out of the _Dispatch_ office that day with
a sovereign and a shilling in my hand. I had forced the gates of the
citadel at last. I had marched in with the honours of war, and I was
marching out with the price of victory in my hand.

Soon afterwards there came another chance. The editor of the _Dispatch_
wanted a series of short complete stories. I asked to be allowed to try
if I could do them. Under the title of 'The Social Kaleidoscope,' I
wrote a series of short stories or sketches, and from that day no week
has passed that I have not contributed something to the columns of a
weekly journal.

When the sketches were complete, the publisher of the _Dispatch_ offered
to bring them out in book form for me and publish them in the office.

'The Social Kaleidoscope' was my first book, and that is how it came
into the world.

Years afterwards, my chance came with the dear old fellow who had said
that it was a pity I scribbled so. Fortune had smiled upon me in one way
then, and I was earning an excellent income with my pen. But my health
had broken down, and it was thought necessary that I should place myself
in the hands of a celebrated surgeon. I had not seen my old doctor for
some years, but my people wished that he should be consulted, because he
had known me so well in the days of my youth.

So I submitted, and he came, and he shook his head and agreed that
so-and-so was the man to take me in hand.

'I think he'll cure you, my dear fellow,' said the doctor; 'he's the
most skilful surgeon we have for cases like yours, but his fee is a
heavy one. Still, you can afford it.'

'Yes, doctor,' I replied, 'thanks to my _scribbling_, I can.'

That was the hour of my triumph. I had waited for it for fifteen years,
but it had come at last.

The dear old boy gripped my hand. 'I was wrong,' he said, with a quiet
smile, 'and I confess it; but w