to say, economised greatly in space and matter; and in
case any special exhibit failed to arrive in time, or was thrown away
by mistake, an old one turned upside down at once remedied the defect.

His nearest approach to fame occurred during the period which followed
the perpetration of his celebrated "Mother with her Child." It was
announced that the gifted sculptor had worked on it for five years; and
a certain amount of light was thrown on his methods by an interview he
managed to get published in some obscure journal.

"Rising with a hoarse cry," ran this effusion, "Mr. Bendigo Jones
hurled himself at his work. With a single blow he removed a
protuberance, and then sank back exhausted.

"'You see the difference,' he cried, 'you see how I have altered her
expression.'

"'Whose?' I murmured dazedly.

"'Why, the face of the woman. Ah! dolt, blockhead, have you no
eyes--have you no soul?'

"'But you told me that was a church at sunset,' I remonstrated feebly.

"'What has that to do with it?' he shouted. 'It is what I like to make
it, fool. What is a name? Nothing--a bagatelle. I have changed my
mind every day for the last five years, and now my life's work is
done--done.'

"Mr. Bendigo Jones sobbed quietly, and I stole away. It was not for me
to gaze on such grief. And as I went through the open window I heard
his final whisper.

"'It shall be none of these things. I will pander to vile
utilitarianism. It shall be--"A City Magnate at Lunch."'"

It may be remembered that when it was finally put on view in London,
enormous interest was aroused by an enterprising weekly paper offering
prizes to the extent of a thousand pounds to any one who could guess
what it was; and though Bendigo Jones's pocket was helped considerably
by his percentage of the gate money, his pride suffered considerably
when the answers were made public. They ranged from, "Model of the
first steam engine when out of control," to "An explosion of a ship at
sea," both of which happy efforts gained a bag of nuts. The answer
adjudged most nearly correct was sent in by a Fulham butcher, who
banked on "Angry gentleman quarrelling with his landlord on
quarter-day": which at any rate had the merit of making it human.

But I have digressed enough; I will return to my sad story. How our
friend ever did arrive in France is as much of a mystery to me as it
was to the Colonel; presumably a ruthless government, having decided it
required