ar thinking about. This is one.

* * * * *

Our friend Dicky had a bad misfortune lately. I should say that Dicky is
an oldish man, who drifted into this ugly quarter some time ago, and
took his place in the parlour, which is a room that I now prefer to the
bar. I was holding a friendly discussion with a butcher when a strident
voice said, "You are absolutely and irredeemably ignorant of the
rudiments of your subject." I started. Where had I heard that voice
before? The man was clad in an old shooting-jacket; his trousers were
out at the knee, and his linen was very dirty; yet there was a something
about him--a kind of distinction--which was impressive. After launching
his expression of contempt at us, he buried his face in his pot and took
a mighty drink. Slowly my memory aided me, and under that knobby,
pustuled skin I traced the features of Dicky Nash, the most dreaded
political journalist of my time. Often I had heard that voice roaring
blasphemies with a vigour that no other man could equal; often had I
seen that sturdy form extended beside the editorial chair, while the
fumes in the office told tales as to the cause of the fall. And now here
was Dicky--ragged, dirty, and evidently down on his luck. I soon made
friends with him by owning his superior authority, and he kindly took a
quart of ale at my expense. This was a man who used to earn L2,000 a
year after he resigned his University fellowship. He was the friend and
adviser of statesmen; he might have ended as a Cabinet Minister, for no
man ever succeeded in gauging the extent of his miraculous ability; he
seemed to be the most powerful, as well as the most dreaded man in
England. Woe is me! We had to carry him up to bed; and he stayed on
until he spent a three-guinea cheque, which Mr. Landlord cashed for him.

I knew no good would come of his Fleet-street games, though he used to
laugh things off himself. He would come in about seven in the evening,
and seat himself at his table. Then he would hiccup, "Can't write
politics; no good. Give us a nice light subject."

"Try an article on the country at this season of the year."

"Good. I can't hold the damned pen. You sit down, I'll dictate: In this
refulgent season, when the barred clouds bloom the soft dying day, it is
pleasant to wander by the purple hedgerows where the stars of the (What
damned flower is it that twinkles now? What do you say? Ragged Robin?
Not poetic enough. C