had for several years drawn regularly
in this shop. Inside there he had introduced the Raglan shirt, the
Duke of Westminster four-in-hand, and the Churchill batwing collar. He
longed to enter and plead for reinstatement, but his new-found pride
refused to budge his legs door-ward. Thirty shillings, twelve for his
"third floor back," and the rest for clothes and books and simple
amusements. What a whirl he had been in, this past fortnight!

He pulled at his chin, shook his head and turned away. No, he simply
could not do it. What! suffer himself to be laughed at behind his
back? Impossible, a thousand times no! At the first news stand he
bought two or three morning papers, and continued on to his lodgings.
He must leave England at once, but the question was--How?

It was a comfortable room, as "third floor backs" go. He read the
"want" advertisements carefully, and at length paused at a paragraph
which seemed to suit his fancy perfectly. "Cabin stewards
wanted--White Star Line--New York and Liverpool." He cut out the
clipping, folded it and stored it away. Then he proceeded to pack up
his belongings, not a very laborious affair.

Manuscripts. He riffled the pages ruefully. Sonnets and chant-royals
and epics, fine and lofty in spirit; so fine indeed that they easily
sifted through every editorial office in London. There was even a
bulky romance. He had read so much about the enormous royalties which
American authors received for their work, and English authors who were
popular on the other side, that his ambition had been frenetically
stirred. The fortunes such men as Maundering and Piffle and Drool
made! And all he had accomplished so far had been the earnest support
of the postal service. Far back at the beginning he had been
unfortunate enough to sell a sonnet for ten shillings. Alack! You
sell your first sonnet, you win your first hand at cards, and then the
passion has you.

Poetry was a drug on the market. Nobody read it (or wrote it) these
days; and any one who attempted to sell it was clearly mad. Oh, a
jingle for Punch might pass, you know; something clever, with a snapper
to it. But epic poetry? Sonnets? Why, didn't you know that there
wasn't a magazine going that did not have some sub-editor who could
whack out fourteen lines in fourteen minutes, whenever a page needed
filling up? These things he had been told times without number. And
Maundering, Piffle and Drool had long since