described by
catalogue, after the manner of the ships at Troy. It consisted of
two small beds, one rickety washstand, one wooden chair, and one tin
candlestick. At the present moment this last held a flickering dip,
for it was ten o'clock on the night of May the ninth, eighteen
hundred and sixty-three. On the chair sat Tom, turning excitedly the
leaves of a prodigiously imposing manuscript. I was sitting on the
edge of the bed nearest the candle, brooding on my hate as usual.

Fortune had evidently dealt us some rough knocks. We were dressed,
as Tom put it, to suit the furniture, and did it to a nicety.
We were fed, according to the same authority, above our income; but
not often. I also quote Tom in saying that we were living rather
fast: we certainly saw no long prospect before us. In short, matters
had reached a crisis.

Tom looked up from his reading.

"Do you know, Jasper, I could wish that our wash-stand had not a
hole cut in it to receive the basin. It sounds hyper-critical.
But really it prejudices me in the eyes of the managers. There's a
suspicious bulge in the middle of the paper that is damning."

I was absorbed in my own thoughts, and took no notice. Presently he
continued--

"Whittington is an overrated character, don't you think? After all
he owed his success to his name. It's a great thing for struggling
youth to have a three-syllabled name with a proparoxyton accent.
I've been listening to the bells to-night and they can make nothing
of Loveday, while as for Trenoweth, it's hopeless."

As I still remained silent, Tom proceeded to announce--

"The House will now go into the Question of Supply."

"The Exchequer," I reported, "contains exactly sixteen and eightpence
halfpenny."

"Rent having been duly paid to-day and receipt given."

"Receipt given," I echoed.

"Really, when one comes to think of it, the situation is striking.
Here are you, Jasper Trenoweth, inheritor of the Great Ruby of
Ceylon, besides other treasure too paltry to mention, in danger of
starving in a garret. Here am I, Thomas Loveday, author of
'Francesca: a Tragedy,' and other masterpieces too numerous to
catalogue, with every prospect of sharing your fate. The situation
is striking, Jasper, you'll allow."

"What did the manager say about it?" I asked.

"Only just enough to show he had not looked at it. He was more
occupied with my appearance; and yet we agreed before I set out that
your trousers might ha