People said of the new journal, Good Humour—people of taste and , that it was the brightest, the cleverest, the most literary penny weekly that ever had been offered to the public.  This made Peter Hope, editor and part-, very happy.  William Clodd, business manager, and also part-proprietor, it left less elated.  
“Must be careful,” said William Clodd, “that we don’t make it too clever.  Happy medium, that’s the ideal.”
 
People said—people of taste and judgment, that Good Humour was more of support than all the other penny weeklies put together.  People of taste and judgment even went so far, some of them, as to buy it.  Peter Hope, looking forward, saw fame and fortune coming to him.
 
William Clodd, looking round about him, said—
 
“Doesn’t it occur to you, Guv’nor, that we’re getting this thing just a trifle too high class?”
 
“What makes you think that?” demanded Peter Hope.
 
“Our circulation, for one thing,” explained Clodd.  “The returns for last month—”
 
“I’d rather you didn’t mention them, if you don’t mind,” interrupted Peter Hope; “somehow, hearing the actual figures always depresses me.”
 
“Can’t say I feel inspired by them myself,” admitted Clodd.
 
“It will come,” said Peter Hope, “it will come in time.  We must educate the public up to our level.”
 
“If there is one thing, so far as I have noticed,” said William Clodd, “that the public are inclined to pay less for than another, it is for being educated.”
 
“What are we to do?” asked Peter Hope.
 
“What you want,” answered William Clodd, “is an office-boy.”
 
“How will our having an office-boy increase our circulation?” demanded Peter Hope.  “Besides, it was agreed that we could do without one for the first year.  Why suggest more expense?”
 
“I don’t mean an ordinary office-boy,” explained Clodd.  “I mean the sort of boy that I rode with in the train going down to Stratford yesterday.”
 
“What was there about him?”
 
“Nothing.  He was reading the current number of the Penny Novelist.  Over two hundred thousand people buy it.  He is one of them.  He told me so.  When he had done with it, he drew from his pocket a copy of the Halfpenny Joker—they guarantee a circulation of seventy thousand.  He sat and over it until we got to Bow.”
 
“But—”
 
“You wait a minute.  I’m coming to the explanation.  That boy represents the reading public.  I talked to him.  The papers he likes best are the papers that have the largest sales.  He never made a single mistake.  The others—those of them he had seen—he dismissed as ‘rot.’  What he likes is what the great mass of the journal-buying public likes.  Please him—I took his name and address, and he is willing to come to us for eight shillings a week—and you please the people that buy.  Not the people that glance through a paper when it is lying on the smoking-room table, and tell you it is damned good, but the people that down their penny.  That’s the sort we want.”
 
Peter Hope, able editor, with ideals, was shocked—indignant.  William Clodd, business man, without ideals, talked figures.
 
“There’s the advertiser to be thought of,” persisted Clodd.  “I don’t pretend to be a George Washington, but what’s the use of telling lies that sound like lies, even to one’s self while one’s telling them?  Give me a genuine sale of twenty thousand, and I’ll undertake, without committing myself, to convey an impression of forty.  But when the actual figures are under eight thousand—well, it you, if you happen to have a conscience.
 
“Give them every week a dozen columns of good, sound literature,” continued Clodd , “but wrap it up in twenty-four columns of jam.  It’s the only way they’ll take it, and you will be doing them good—educating them without their knowing it.  All powder and no jam!  Well, they don’t open their mouths, that’s all.”
 
Clodd was a man who knew how to get his way.  Flipp—spelled Philip—Tweetel arrived in due course of time at 23, Crane Court, ostensibly to take up the position of Good Humour’s office-boy; in reality, and without his being aware of it, to act as its literary taster.  Stories in which Flipp became absorbed were accepted.  Peter , but himself with correcting only their grosser grammatical blunders; the experiment should be tried in all good faith.  Humour at which Flipp laughed was printed.  Peter tried to ease his conscience by increasing his to the fund for compositors, but only succeeded.  Poetry that brought a tear to the eye of Flipp was given leaded type.  People of taste and judgment said Good Humour had disappointed them.  Its circulation, slowly but , increased.
 
“See!” cried the delighted Clodd; “told you so!”
 
“It’s sad to think—” began Peter.
 
“Always is,” interrupted Clodd cheerfully.  “Moral—don’t think too much.”
 
“Tell you what we’ll do,” added Clodd.  “We’ll make a fortune out of this paper.  Then when we can afford to lose a little money, we’ll launch a paper that shall appeal only to the intellectual portion of the public.  Meanwhile—”
 
A black bottle with a label attached, on the desk, arrested Clodd’s attention.
 
“When did this come?” asked Clodd.
 
“About an hour ago,” Peter told him.
 
“Any order with it?”
 
“I think so.”  Peter searched for and found a letter addressed to “William Clodd, Esq., Manager, Good Humour.”  Clodd tore it open, hastily it.
 
“Not closed up yet, are you?”
 
“No, not till eight o’clock.”
 
“Good!  I want you to write me a .  Do it now, then you won’t forget it.  For the ‘Walnuts and Wine’ column.”
 
Peter sat down, headed a sheet of paper: ‘For W. and W. Col.’
 
“What is it?” questioned Peter—“something to drink?”
 
“It’s a sort of port,” explained Clodd, “that doesn’t get into your head.”
 
“You consider that an advantage?” Peter.
 
“Of course.  You can drink more of it.”
 
Peter continued to write: ‘Possesses all the qualities of an old vintage port, without those deleterious properties—’  “I haven’t tasted it, Clodd,” hinted Peter.
 
“That’s all right—I have.”
 
“And was it good?”
 
“Splendid stuff.  Say it’s ‘delicious and invigorating.’  They’ll be sure to quote that.”
 
Peter wrote on: ‘Personally I have found it delicious and—’ Peter left off writing.  “I really think, Clodd, I ought to taste it.  You see, I am personally recommending it.”
 
“Finish that par.  Let me have it to take round to the printers.  Then put the bottle in your pocket.  Take it home and make a night of it.”
 
Clodd appeared to be in a hurry.  Now, this made Peter only the more suspicious.  The bottle was close to his hand.  Clodd tried to him, but was not quick enough.
 
“You’re not used to temperance drinks,” urged Clodd.  “Your palate is not accustomed to them.”
 
“I can tell whether it’s ‘delicious’ or not, surely?” pleaded Peter, who had pulled out the .
 
“It’s a quarter-page advertisement for thirteen weeks.  Put it down and don’t be a fool!” urged Clodd.
 
“I’m going to put it down,” laughed Peter, who was fond of his joke.  Peter poured out half a tumblerful, and drank—some of it.
 
“Like it?” demanded Clodd, with a grin.
 
“You are sure—you are sure it was the right bottle?” Peter.
 
“Bottle’s all right,” Clodd assured him.  “Try some more.  Judge it fairly.”
 
Peter ventured on another .  “You don’t think they would be satisfied if I recommended it as a medicine?” Peter—“something to have about the house in case of accidental poisoning?”
 
“Better go round and suggest the idea to them yourself.  I’ve done with it.”  Clodd took up his hat.
 
“I’m sorry—I’m very sorry,” sighed Peter.  “But I couldn’t conscientiously—”
 
Clodd put down his hat again with a bang.  “Oh! confound that conscience of yours!  Don’t it ever think of your ?  What’s the use of my working out my lungs for you, when all you do is to me at every step?”
 
“Wouldn’t it be better policy,” urged Peter, “to go for the better class of advertiser, who doesn’t ask you for this sort of thing?”
 
“Go for him!” snorted Clodd.  “Do you think I don’t go for him?  They are just sheep.  Get one, you get the lot.  Until you’ve got the one, the others won’t listen to you.”
 
“That’s true,” Peter.  “I to Wilkinson, of Kingsley’s, myself.  He advised me to try and get Landor’s.  He thought that if I could get an advertisement out of Landor, he might persuade his people to give us theirs.”
 
“And if you had gone to Landor, he would have promised you theirs provided you got Kingsley’s.”
 
“They will come,” thought hopeful Peter.  “We are going up steadily.  They will come with a rush.”
 
“They had better come soon,” thought Clodd.  “The only things coming with a rush just now are bills.”
 
“Those articles of young McTear’s attracted a good deal of attention,” Peter.  “He has promised to write me another series.”
 
“Jowett is the one to get hold of,” mused Clodd.  “Jowett, all the others follow like a flock of geese after the old gander.  If only we could get hold of Jowett, the rest would be easy.”
 
Jowett was the proprietor of the famous Marble Soap.  Jowett spent on advertising every year a quarter of a million, it was said.  Jowett was the stay and of periodical literature.  New papers that secured the Marble Soap advertisement lived and ; the new paper to which it was denied and died.  Jowett, and how to get hold of him; Jowett, and how to get round him, formed the chief topic of discussion at the council-board of most new papers, Good Humour amongst the number.
 
“I have heard,” said Miss Ramsbotham, who wrote the Letter to Clorinda that filled each week the last two pages of Good Humour, and that told Clorinda, who lived in the country, the daily history of the highest class society, among whom Miss Ramsbotham appeared to live and have her being; who they were, and what they wore, the wise and otherwise things they did—“I have heard,” said Miss Ramsbotham one morning, Jowett being as usual the subject under debate, “that the old man is to female influence.”
 
“What I have always thought,” said Clodd.  “A lady advertising-agent might do well.  At all events, they couldn’t kick her out.”
 
“They might in the end,” thought Peter.  “Female door-porters would become a profession for muscular ladies if ever the idea took root.”
 
“The first one would get a good start, anyhow,” thought Clodd.
 
The sub-editor had up her ears.  Once upon a time, long ago, the sub-editor had succeeded, when all other London journalists had failed, in securing an interview with a certain great statesman.  The sub-editor had never forgotten this—nor allowed anyone else to forget it.
 
“I believe I could get it for you,” said the sub-editor.
 
The editor and the business-manager both spoke together.  They spoke with decision and with emphasis.
 
“Why not?” said the sub-editor.  “When nobody else could get at him, it was I who interviewed Prince—”
 
“We’ve heard all about that,” interrupted the business-manager.  “If I had been your father at the time, you would never have done it.”
 
“How could I have stopped her?” retorted Peter Hope.  “She never said a word to me.”
 
“You could have kept an eye on her.”
 
“Kept an eye on her!  When you’ve got a girl of your own, you’ll know more about them.”
 
“When I have,” asserted Clodd, “I’ll manage her.”
 
“We know all about bachelor’s children,” Peter Hope, the editor.
 
“You leave it to me.  I’ll have it for you before the end of the week,” crowed the sub-editor.
 
“If you do get it,” returned Clodd, “I shall throw it out, that’s all.”
 
“You said yourself a lady advertising-agent would be a good idea,” the sub-editor reminded him.
 
“So she might be,” returned Clodd; “but she isn’t going to be you.”
 
“Why not?”
 
“Because she isn’t, that’s why.”
 
“But if—”
 
“See you at the printer’s at twelve,” said Clodd to Peter, and went out suddenly.
 
“Well, I think he’s an idiot,” said the sub-editor.
 
“I do not often,” said the editor, “but on this point I agree with him.  for advertisements isn’t a woman’s work.”
 
“But what is the difference between—”
 
“All the difference in the world,” thought the editor.
 
“You don’t know what I was going to say,” returned his sub.
 
“I know the drift of it,” asserted the editor.
 
“But you let me—”
 
“I know I do—a good deal too much.  I’m going to turn over a new leaf.”
 
“All I propose to do—”
 
“Whatever it is, you’re not going to do it,” declared the chief.  “Shall be back at half-past twelve, if anybody comes.”
 
“It seems to me—”  But Peter was gone.
 
“Just like them all,” the sub-editor.  “They can’t argue; when you explain things to them, they go out.  It does make me so mad!”
 
Miss Ramsbotham laughed.  “You are a downtrodden little girl, Tommy.”
 
“As if I couldn’t take care of myself!”  Tommy’s chin was high up in the air.
 
“Cheer up,” suggested Miss Ramsbotham.  “Nobody ever tells me not to do anything.  I would change with you if I could.”
 
“I’d have walked into that office and have had that advertisement out of old Jowett in five minutes, I know I would,” Tommy.  “I can always get on with old men.”
 
“Only with the old ones?” queried Miss Ramsbotham.
 
The door opened.  “Anybody in?” asked the face of Johnny Bulstrode, appearing in the jar.
 
“Can’t you see they are?” snapped Tommy.
 
“Figure of speech,” explained Johnny Bulstrode, commonly called “the Babe,” entering and closing the door behind him.
 
“What do you want?” demanded the sub-editor.
 
“Nothing in particular,” replied the Babe.
 
“Wrong time of the day to come for it, half-past eleven in the morning,” explained the sub-editor.
 
“What’s the matter with you?” asked the Babe.
 
“Feeling very cross,” confessed the sub-editor.
 
The childlike face of the Babe expressed sympathetic .
 
“We are very indignant,” explained Miss Ramsbotham, “because we are not allowed to rush off to Street and an advertisement out of old Jowett, the soap man.  We feel sure that if we only put on our best hat, he couldn’t possibly refuse us.”
 
“No required,” thought the sub-editor.  “Once get in to see the old fellow and put the actual figures before him, he would clamour to come in.”
 
“Won’t he see Clodd?” asked the Babe.
 
“Won’t see anybody on behalf of anything new just at present, apparently,” answered Miss Ramsbotham.  “It was my fault.  I was foolish enough to repeat that I had heard he was susceptible to female charm.  They say it was Mrs. Sarkitt that got the advertisement for The Lamp out of him.  But, of course, it may not be true.”
 
“Wish I was a soap man and had got advertisements to give away,” sighed the Babe.
 
“Wish you were,” agreed the sub-editor.
 
“You should have them all, Tommy.”
 
“My name,” corrected him the sub-editor, “is Miss Hope.”
 
“I beg your pardon,” said the Babe.  “I don’t know how it is, but one gets into the way of calling you Tommy.”
 
“I will thank you,” said the sub-editor, “to get out of it.”
 
“I am sorry,” said the Babe.
 
“Don’t let it occur again,” said the sub-editor.
 
The Babe stood first on one leg and then on the other, but nothing seemed to come of it.  “Well,” said the Babe, “I just looked in, that’s all.  Nothing I can do for you?”
 
“Nothing,” thanked him the sub-editor.
 
“Good morning,” said the Babe.
 
“Good morning,” said the sub-editor.
 
The childlike face of the Babe wore a chastened expression as it slowly the stairs.  Most of the members of the Autolycus Club looked in about once a day to see if they could do anything for Tommy.  Some of them had luck.  Only the day before, Porson—a heavy, most uninteresting man—had been sent down all the way to Plaistow to inquire after the wounded hand of a machine-boy.  Young Alexander, whose poetry some people could not even understand, had been commissioned to search London for a edition of Maitland’s Architecture.  Since a fortnight nearly now, when he had been sent out to drive away an organ that would not go, Johnny had been given nothing.
 
Johnny turned the corner into Fleet Street feeling bitter with his lot.  A boy carrying a parcel stumbled against him.
 
“Beg yer pardon—” the small boy looked up into Johnny’s face, “miss,” added the small boy, the blow and disappearing into the crowd.
 
The Babe, by reason of his childlike face, was accustomed to insults of this character, but to-day it especially irritated him.  Why at twenty-two could he not grow even a moustache?  Why was he only five feet five and a half?  Why had Fate cursed him with a pink-and-white , so that the members of his own club had nicknamed him “the Babe,” while street-boys as they passed pleaded with him for a kiss?  Why was his very voice, a flute-like alto, more suitable—Suddenly an idea sprang to life within his brain.  The idea grew.  Passing a barber’s shop, Johnny went in.
 
“’Air cut, sir?” remarked the barber, fitting a sheet round Johnny’s neck.
 
“No, shave,” corrected Johnny.
 
“Beg pardon,” said the barber, substituting a towel for the sheet.  “Do you shave up, sir?” later demanded the barber.
 
“Yes,” answered Johnny.
 
“Pleasant weather we are having,” said the barber.
 
“Very,” Johnny.
 
From the barber’s, Johnny went to Stinchcombe’s, the costumier’s, in Drury Lane.
 
“I am playing in a burlesque,” explained the Babe.  “I want you to rig me out completely as a modern girl.”
 
“Peeth o’ luck!” said the shopman.  “Goth the very bundle for you.  Juth come in.”
 
“I shall want everything,” explained the Babe, “from the boots to the hat; stays, petticoats—the whole bag of tricks.”
 
“Regular troutheau there,” said the shopman, emptying out the canvas bag upon the counter.  “Thry ’em on.”
 
The Babe contented himself with trying on the costume and the boots.
 
“Juth made for you!” said the shopman.
 
A little loose about the chest, suggested the Babe.
 
“Thath’s all right,” said the shopman.  “Couple o’ thmall towelths, all thath’s wanted.”
 
“You don’t think it too showy?” queried the Babe.
 
“Thowy?  Sthylish, thath’s all.”
 
“You are sure everything’s here?”
 
“Everythinkth there.  ‘Thept the bit o’ meat inthide,” assured him the shopman.
 
The Babe left a deposit, and gave his name and address.  The shopman promised the things should be sent round within an hour.  The Babe, who had entered into the spirit of the thing, bought a pair of gloves and a small reticule, and made his way to Bow Street.
 
“I want a woman’s light brown ,” said the Babe to Mr. Cox, the perruquier.
 
Mr. Cox tried on two.  The appearance of the second Mr. Cox pronounced as perfect.
 
“Looks more natural on you than your own hair, blessed if it doesn’t!” said Mr. Cox.
 
The wig also was promised within the hour.  The spirit of completeness descended upon the Babe.  On his way back to his in Great Queen Street, he purchased a ladylike umbrella and a veil.
 
Now, a quarter of an hour after Johnny Bulstrode had made his exit by the door of Mr. Stinchcombe’s shop, one, Bennett, actor and member of the Autolycus Club, pushed it open and entered.  The shop was empty.  Harry Bennett hammered with his stick and waited.  A piled-up bundle of clothes lay upon the counter; a sheet of paper, with a name and address across it, rested on the bundle.  Harry Bennett, given to idle curiosity, approached and read the same.  Harry Bennett, with his stick, the bundle, its items over the counter.
 
“Donth do thath!” said the shopman, coming up.  “Juth been putting ’em together.”
 
“What the devil,” said Harry Bennett, “is Johnny Bulstrode going to do with that rig-out?”
 
“How thoud I know?” answered the shopman.  “Private theathricals, I suppoth.  Friend o’ yourth?”
 
“Yes,” replied Harry Bennett.  “By Jove! he ought to make a good girl.  Should like to see it!”
 
“Well arthk him for a ticket.  Donth make ’em dirty,” suggested the shopman.
 
“I must,” said Harry Bennett, and talked about his own affairs.
 
The rig-out and the wig did not arrive at Johnny’s lodgings within the hour as promised, but arrived there within three hours, which was as much as Johnny had expected.  It took Johnny nearly an hour to dress, but at last he stood before the plate-glass panel of the wardrobe transformed.  Johnny had reason to be pleased with the result.  A tall, handsome girl looked back at him out of the glass—a little showily dressed, perhaps, but decidedly .
 
“Wonder if I ought to have a cloak,” mused Johnny, as a ray of sunshine, streaming through the window, fell upon the image in the glass.  “Well, anyhow, I haven’t,” thought Johnny, as the sunlight died away again, “so it’s no good thinking about it.”
 
Johnny seized his reticule and his umbrella and opened cautiously the door.  Outside all was silent.  Johnny stealthily descended; in the passage paused again.  Voices sounded from the basement.  Feeling like an escaped burglar, Johnny slipped the of the big door and peeped out.  A policeman, pasting, turned and looked at him.  Johnny hastily drew back and closed the door again.  Somebody was from the kitchen.  Johnny, caught between two terrors, nearer to the front door than to the stairs, having no time, chose the street.  It seemed to Johnny that the street was making for him.  A woman came hurriedly towards him.  What was she going to say to him?  What should he answer her?  To his surprise she passed him, hardly noticing him.  Wondering what miracle had saved him, he took a few steps forward.  A couple of young clerks coming up from behind turned to look at him, but on encountering his answering stare of angry alarm, appeared confused and went their way.  It began to dawn upon him that mankind was less discerning than he had feared.  Gaining courage as he proceeded, he reached Holborn.  Here the larger crowd swept around him indifferent.
 
“I beg your pardon,” said Johnny, coming into collision with a gentleman.
 
“My fault,” replied the stout gentleman, as, smiling, he picked up his damaged hat.
 
“I beg your pardon,” repeated Johnny again two minutes later, colliding with a tall young lady.
 
“Should advise you to take something for that of yours,” remarked the tall young lady with severity.
 
“What’s the matter with me?” thought Johnny.  “Seems to be a sort of mist—”  The explanation flashed across him.  “Of course,” said Johnny to himself, “it’s this confounded veil!”
 
Johnny to walk to the Marble Soap offices.  “I’ll be more used to the hang of things by the time I get there if I walk,” thought Johnny.  “Hope the old beggar’s in.”
 
In Newgate Street, Johnny paused and pressed his hands against his chest.  “Funny sort of pain I’ve got,” thought Johnny.  “Wonder if I should shock them if I went in somewhere for a drop of brandy?”
 
“It don’t get any better,” reflected Johnny, with some alarm, on reaching the corner of Cheapside.  “Hope I’m not going to be ill.  Whatever—”  The explanation came to him.  “Of course, it’s these damned stays!  No wonder girls are short-tempered, at times.”
 
At the offices of the Marble Soap, Johnny was treated with marked courtesy.  Mr. Jowett was out, was not expected back till five o’clock.  Would the lady wait, or would she call again?  The lady decided, now she was there, to wait.  Would the lady take the easy-chair?  Would the lady have the window open or would she have it shut?  Had the lady seen The Times?
 
“Or the Ha’penny Joker?” suggested a junior clerk, who thereupon was sent back to his work.
 
Many of the senior clerks had occasion to pass through the waiting-room.  Two of the senior clerks held views about the weather which they appeared wishful to express at length.  Johnny began to enjoy himself.  This thing was going to be good fun.  By the time the slamming of doors and the hurrying of feet announced the of the chief, Johnny was looking forward to his interview.
 
It was briefer and less satisfactory than he had anticipated.  Mr. Jowett was very busy—did not as a rule see anybody in the afternoon; but of course, a lady—“Would Miss—”
 
“Montgomery.”
 
“Would Miss Montgomery inform Mr. Jowett what it was he might have the pleasure of doing for her?”
 
Miss Montgomery explained.
 
Mr. Jowett seemed half angry, half amused.
 
“Really,” said Mr. Jowett, “this is hardly playing the game.  Against our fellow-men we can protect ourselves, but if the ladies are going to attack us—really it isn’t fair.”
 
Miss Montgomery pleaded.
 
“I’ll think it over,” was all that Mr. Jowett could be made to promise.  “Look me up again.”
 
“When?” asked Miss Montgomery.
 
“What’s to-day?—Thursday.  Say Monday.”  Mr. Jowett rang the bell.  “Take my advice,” said the old gentleman, laying a fatherly hand on Johnny’s shoulder, “leave business to us men.  You are a handsome girl.  You can do better for yourself than this.”
 
A clerk entered, Johnny rose.
 
“On Monday next, then,” Johnny reminded him.
 
“At four o’clock,” agreed Mr. Jowett.  “Good afternoon.”
 
Johnny went out feeling disappointed, and yet, as he told himself, he hadn’t done so badly.  Anyhow, there was nothing for it but to wait till Monday.  Now he would go home, change his clothes, and get some dinner.  He hailed a hansom.
 
“Number twenty-eight—no.  Stop at the Queen’s Street corner of Lincoln’s Inn Fields,” Johnny directed the man.
 
“Quite right, miss,” commented the cabman pleasantly.  “Corner’s best—saves all talk.”
 
“What do you mean?” demanded Johnny.
 
“No offence, miss,” answered the man.  “We was all young once.”
 
Johnny climbed in.  At the corner of Queen Street and Lincoln’s Inn Fields, Johnny got out.  Johnny, who had been pondering other matters, put his hand to where, speaking generally, his pocket should have been; then himself.
 
“Let me see, did I think to bring any money out with me, or did I not?” mused Johnny, as he stood upon the kerb.
 
“Look in the , miss,” suggested the cabman.
 
Johnny looked.  It was empty.
 
“Perhaps I put it in my pocket,” thought Johnny.
 
The cabman his to the whip-socket and leant back.
 
“It’s somewhere about here, I know, I saw it,” Johnny told himself.  “Sorry to keep you waiting,” Johnny added aloud to the cabman.
 
“Don’t you worry about that, miss,” replied the cabman civilly; “we are used to it.  A shilling a quarter of an hour is what we charge.”
 
“Of all the damned silly tricks!” muttered Johnny to himself.
 
Two small boys and a girl carrying a baby paused, interested.
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