"The Laurels, 11 p.m.

    "I have been going to write for the last few days, but have been so busy. I could go on the picnic to-day if it would suit you[Pg 114] I'll call at the studio at one o'clock. If you can't come, send me a wire. Oh, I forgot to say Mr Hancock came home the other day with me and had a long talk with father, and Mr Bevan called to-day and was awfully jolly, and I'll tell you all about it when we meet. Give my love to Mr Verneede.

    "In haste to catch the post.

    "P.S.—I'm in such good spirits. F. L."

It was the morning after the day on which Mr Bevan had called at "The Laurels." Leavesley was in bed, and reading the above, which had come by the early post, and which Belinda had thrust under his door, together with a circular and a bill for colours.

"Hurrah!" cried Mr Leavesley, and then "Great Heavens!" He jumped out of bed, and rummaged wildly in his pockets. He found seven and sixpence in silver, and a penny and a halfpenny in coppers, a stump of pencil, a tramway ticket with a hole punched in it, and a Woodbine cigarette packet containing one cigarette. He placed the money on the wash-hand-stand, then he sat for a moment on the side of his bed disconsolate.

The most beautiful day that ever dawned, the most beautiful girl in the world, a chance[Pg 115] of taking her up the river, and seven and six to do it on!

He curled his toes about. Yesterday, in a fit of righteousness, he had paid a tailor two pounds ten on account. He contemplated this great mistake gloomily. Wild ideas of calling on Mark Moses & Sonenshine and asking for the two pounds ten back crossed his mind, to be instantly dispelled.

The only two men in London who could possibly help him with a loan were, to use a Boyle-Rochism, in Paris. Mrs Tugwell, his landlady, was at Margate, and he was in the middle of his tri-monthly squabble with his uncle. He called up the ghost of his aunt Patience Hancock, and communed with her just for the sake of self-torture, and the contemplation of the hopeless.

Then he rang his bell, which Belinda answered.

"Breakfast at once, Belinda."

"Yessir, and here's another letter as hes just come," she poked a square envelope under the door. Leavesley seized it with a palpitating heart; it was unstamped, and had evidently been left in by hand.

"This is the God from the Machine," he[Pg 116] thought. "There's money in it, I know. It always happens like this when things are at their worst."

We all have these instincts at times: the contents of an unopened letter or parcel seem endowed with a voice; who has not guessed the fateful news in a telegram before he has broken open the envelope, even as Leavesley guessed the contents of the letter in his hand?

He tore it open and took out a sheet of paper and a pawnbroker's duplicate. The letter ran:—

    "NO. 150A KING'S ROAD,

    "OVER THE BACON SHOP.

    "Dear Leavesley,—I am in bed, not suffering from smallpox, croup, spinal meningitis, or any wasting or infectious disease. I am in bed, my dear Leavesley, simply for want of my trousers. Robed in Jones' long ulster, which reacheth to my heels, I took the aforesaid garments yester-even after dusk to my uncle. If help does not come they will have to take me to the workhouse in a blanket. I enclose duplicate. Three and sevenpence would release me and them.
    "'The die is cast
    And this is the last.'

    "From

    The Captain.

    'P.S.—If you have no money send me the 'Count of Monte Cristo'—you have a copy;[Pg 117] or the 'Multi-Millionaire.' I have nothing to read but a Financial News of the day before yesterday."

Leavesley groaned and laughed, and groaned again. Then he got into his bath and splashed; as he splashed his spirits rose amazingly.

The Captain's letter had electrified the Bohemian part of his nature; instead of depressing him it had done the reverse. Here was another poor devil worse off than himself. Leavesley had six pair of trousers.

The Captain, in parenthesis let me say, has no part in this story. He wasn't a captain, he was a relic of the South African War, a gentleman with a taste for drink, amusing, harmless, and amiable. I only introduce him on account of the telepathic interest of his letter, or rather of the way in which Leavesley divined its contents.

"Seven and sixpence—I mean seven and sevenpence halfpenny, is not a bit of use," said the painter to himself when he had finished breakfast, "so here goes."

He put three and sevenpence in an envelope with the pathetic duplicate, addressed it to Captain Waring, rang for Belinda; and when that much-harried maid-of-all-work appeared,[Pg 118] told her to take it as soon as she could to Captain Waring, down the road over the bacon shop, also to call at Mr Verneede's and ask him to come round at twelve.

Then he reached down a finished picture, wrapped it in brown paper, put the parcel under his arm and started off.

He took a complication of omnibuses, and arrived in Wardour Street about half-past nine.

"Mr Fernandez is gone to the country on pizzines," said the Jew-boy slave of the picture dealer, who came from the interior of the gloomy shop like a dirty gnome, called forth by the ring of the door bell.

"Oh, d——n!" said Leavesley.

"He's gone on pizzines," replied the other.

"Where's he gone to?"

"Down in the country."

"Look here, I want to sell a picture."

"Mr Fernandez is gone on pizzines."

"Oh, dash Mr Fernandez! Is there no one here I can show the thing to? He knows me."

"There's only me," said the grimy sphinx.

"Can you buy it?"

"No, I ain't no use for buying. Mr Fernandez is gone on——"

[Pg 119]

"Oh, go to the devil!"

"This is a nice sort of thing," said Leavesley to himself as he stood in Wardour Street perspiring. "There's nothing f............