hall or in Park Lane. The hum of printing-presses from
dingy basements, the smell of printer's ink from many open doors, had a
charm for him which perversely recalled the scent of new-mown hay in a
Hampton meadow long years before.

At first, he rarely passed a street without noting its name, an odd
building without finding something to engage his interest, a man of
uncommon aspect without wondering who he might be--what paper did he
edit? But soon his daily walk from his lodgings in Woburn Place to the
office of the _Watchman_ opposite the Law Courts was performed with
less attention to the common objects of the route.

A sausage shop hard by his office, sending forth at all hours of the day
a strong odour of frying fat and onions, remained the freshest of his
impressions; he never passed it without thinking of its impertinence in
such a quarter; but one day he discovered that it was not without claim
to literary associations.

A young man with a chin that had required a shave for at least three
days, wearing a shabby black mackintosh suggestive of shabbier things
below, and boots much down at heel, came out of the shop with the aroma
of sausage and onion strong upon him, and the fag-end of a savoury
mouthful in the act of descending his throat. Something in the features
of this dilapidated person struck Henry as oddly familiar, so that he
glanced at him intently, and looked back, still puzzling as to who the
fellow could be, when he found the shabby one looking at him, and
evidently equally exercised concerning his identity. After a moment's
hesitation, Henry walked back to him, and the sausage-eater flushed as
he said:

"Why, Hen--Mr. Charles--can it be you? I knew you were in London, and
had half a mind to call on you, but you--well--"

The reason why was too obvious to call for explanation.

Henry himself was quite as much confused as the speaker. It was a shock
to him to recognise in the person before him none other than one who had
first pointed out to him the road to Journalism--"Trevor Smith, if you
please."

What a change from those Stratford days, when he had talked so jauntily
of fortunes made in Fleet Street, so hopefully of the coming of his own
chance there. The greasy hat was worn with none of the old rakish air,
but served only as a sorry covering for unkempt locks; and if London
streets were paved with gold, the precious metal had worn away the heels
of Trevor's boots as surely as any of the ba