Mr. Spivey's Clerk/Chapter 6

I have already told you that Mr. Spivey was very fond of the company of great people, and that he would do anything and go anywhere in order to have a few minutes' chat or even a cool nod from anybody who was Somebody. I have also told you that his somebodies very often turned out to be nobodies, with unpleasant habits of borrowing half-crowns and asking for advances out of the petty cash. I think this was perhaps a righteous judgment on Mr. Spivey for presuming to make himself that which he certainly was not. But despite the fact that his somebodies were usually very disappointing, Mr. Spivey, who was nothing, if not plucky ​and persevering, stuck to his guns with much zeal, and made bold efforts to bring down something that should be worth exhibiting. Snubs, like that which the well-known Bumpo administered to him, seemed to glide away from his soul like water from a duck's oily back; failures, like that which he experienced when he published Mr. McMurdo's novel, a production in which Spivey had much confidence, and every one else no pleasure, only determined him in his onward course. He was bound to capture something great some day—only the capture must be effected at very small cost. That was where the difficulty came in. Great authors, or hawthurs, as Spivey called them, could have been had in plenty, if the cheques had been correspondingly big; but Spivey's idea was to have a big bag for a very few cartridges.

Now, in the early summer of the year 187—, there appeared from the press of a London firm, a novel or novelette, which set everybody ​by the ears. That is to say, one portion—the least intelligent—of the reading public vowed that such a work had not been issued within the memory of the oldest inhabitant; the other portion—the most intelligent—said that if productions of this class were to be looked upon as good work, it was quite certain that our national tastes were going to the bad, instead of to the good. Nevertheless, both portions of the reading public bought and read the book, which was sold at a shilling, and stood in huge piles on every bookstall in town and country. I dare say the most intelligent class of readers read the book with as much avidity as the least intelligent, although, as is the way with your clever people, they affected to despise its style and tone. It was, of course, a very sensational book, and dealt with themes which the last ten years have hackneyed for us; but which were then comparatively new to English fiction. Murders there were in plenty, ​with much realism and detail; there was also more than a trace of supernatural dealings, and there was that contempt of certain national virtues which some of our novelists have taken to borrowing from the novelists of a less healthy nation. The style and theme, in fact, were new—wherefore the people left the old paths and went to bow down before a new idol. Then, too, the book was published under an assumed name, and the latter was one eminently calculated to impress itself upon the imagination of young ladies and very young gentlemen. It was Rupert Tremayne. Fancy the possibilities existing behind a name like that! Who might not Rupert Tremayne be? Perhaps a member of our nobility, who had been blighted in his early youth, and after wandering through the earth like Cain or Mephistopheles, or some of those other nice, interesting people, don't you know, had written down this fascinating chronicle of love and passion. Perhaps the main incidents ​were passages from his own life. Indeed, they must be, for who could have imagined so gruesome a murder, or such thrilling descriptions of the grand passion? Yes, Rupert Tremayne must indeed be a remarkable man—half Corsair or Giaour or something of that sort. So declared the young ladies who read the book and lay awake half the night weeping o'er the wrongs of its hero, who was indeed such a remarkable character, that if he had lived in civilised circles, he would infallibly have been sent to Portland for ten years, or finished off altogether at the hands of Mr. Calcraft's successor.

When a book makes a sensation the first question asked by everybody is—has the author written anything else? Everybody asked this in connection with Mr. Rupert Tremayne's book. Were there any other works of his? Who published them? What were they called?

Alas, Mr. Rupert Tremayne had only published one previous volume—a book of tender ​little things, bound in delicate apple-green cloth and entitled "Lotus and Aloe." They, too, were of the please-pity-me order, and produced as many tears as the realistic story. They gave an insight into the author's soul, and opened up vistas of moonlight and perfume and kisses, and jewelled daggers, and mysterious deeds done in Venetian chambers. The little apple-green volume found its way into every boudoir, and some of its more understandable contents were set to music and sung by æsthetic-gowned damsels in Mayfair drawing-rooms, amidst a general sense of unutterable woe and misery.

And after this of course Society began to clamour for the man himself. It must see him and hear him, and invite him to balls, and routs, and tennis. He must pose on river-side lawns and at a minister's breakfast-table in company with Professer Trotaround, the Asiatic Explorer, and Mr. Tapthumb, the eminent pulpit orator, and Miss Chickamanga, the American actress. ​He must give himself up to be stared at, and exhibited, and bowed down to, and therefore Society set itself to find him out and bring him forward.

Anything of this sort is of course a veritable godsend to people like Mr. McFlynn. The paragraphs which he wrote in Sparks concerning the mysterious Rupert Tremayne were legion. "We have it on the best authority that the distinguished author who veils his identity under the pseudonym Rupert Tremayne, is a young and well-known member of the aristocracy who figured a year or two ago in a well-remembered cause célèbre, and who has since travelled through all parts of the globe." "We are in a position to state that Rupert Tremayne is the assumed name of the D——— of C———, whose name was so prominently before the public a year ago, in connection with that of a celebrated and very beautiful burlesque actress!" "We hear that Rupert Tremayne is not, as we formerly announced, the D——— of C———, but we can now ​state positively that the peer who veils his identity under this now well-known nom de plume is the young E——— of F———, whose name," etc.

Now it chanced that when Rupert Tremayne's novel first appeared Mr. Spivey bought a copy of it. I suppose he did so because it had the picture of a very beautiful young woman on the back, for Mr. Spivey had a great weakness for beauty in any form. I don't know whether he was impressed or disappointed by the story; but when the second edition appeared in a few days with a loud flourish of trumpets from the lucky publishers, Mr. Spivey pricked up his ears. Two or three days more saw a third edition called for, with more braying of trumpets and display of heavy-typed advertisements, and Mr. Spivey began to get uneasy. When the fourth edition appeared, and everybody began to ask everybody else if he or she had seen Rupert Tremayne's novel, Mr. Spivey became feverish, and made a vow that he would secure this goose ​of the golden eggs for himself. He got McFlynn into his sanctum and asked that worthy Hibernian if the paragraph about the D——— of C——— was true. McFlynn laughed in his face, and seemed quite unable to understand Mr. Spivey's credulity. No, he said, the paragraph about the D——— of C——— was purely imaginary, and, for aught he knew to the contrary, Rupert Tremayne might be a miserable hack-writer living in the dreariest house in Grub Street.

That morning Mr. Spivey shut himself in his own sanctum and locked the door, previously commanding everybody to observe strict silence and disturb him on no account whatever. He also washed his hands at the sink downstairs, and gave the office-boy a shilling wherewith to purchase a new towel. He further instructed Mr. Denton to lay a new pad of blotting-paper on his desk, and put a new pen into his holder, and to pour a fresh supply of black ink into his gorgeous inkstand.

​We all knew, from previous experience, what this meant. It meant that Mr. Spivey was going to compose! Yes, from the brain of Spivey there was about to come forth a letter, a letter designed to subdue and conquer whosoever should read it.

At the end of an hour Mr. Spivey came forth red and triumphant, a sealed envelope in his hands. He marched through the office, and through the shop, and out at the door. He had gone to post the important missive with his own hands.

After he returned, he summoned Tom Christmas and myself to his presence. He sat at his desk with the air of an Alexander who has resolved on conquering a new world.

"Christmas and Tempest," said Mr. Spivey, playing carelessly with his elegant paper-knife, "I am about to develop the business very largely. For a long time I have contemplated issuing a new series of shilling novels. Shilling novels, ​you know, are going to be all the rage. I have deferred commencing publication, however, until I could meet with an hawthur whose name would command the sale."

It seemed to me that plenty of authors might have been found if Mr. Spivey had only looked in the right place for them; but I bowed politely, and he proceeded.

"You are both aware that that new novel by Rupert Tremayne is selling like wildfire. I have written this morning to Mr. Tremayne and offered him first-class, first-class terms. I don't think there's another house in London or anywhere else that would pay such terms. Of course he'll take them. Now, Christmas, if a letter comes for me, enclosed in an envelope with my writing on it, don't open it, but keep it for me."

Tom Christmas promised to obey.

"This'll mean a good deal to you two young men," continued Mr. Spivey, grandly. "If the thing pays we shall have to remove to much ​larger premises, and your salaries will both be doubled."

I beg Mr. Spivey's pardon. He did not say "salaries," he said "wages." It was his idea to keep his clerks in a state of servitude, and servants get "wages," whereas "salaries" are paid to secretaries, and F.O. people, and members of H.M. Government.

"I have been obliged to write to Mr. Tremayne at his present publisher's," said Mr. Spivey, "as no one knows his address, nor, indeed, who he is. It may therefore be a few days before I hear from him; but you'll keep the letter, Christmas, for me alone."

Mr. Spivey was in a state of feverish anxiety during the next few days. He came earlier to the office every morning and went away an hour later every evening. He walked into the shop every half-hour and inquired of Tom Christmas if that letter had not come yet.

On the fifth day it came, and Tom carried ​it into Mr. Spivey's office. Ten minutes later we were both summoned to hear that gentleman communicate a great piece of news. Mr. Rupert Tremayne, the mysterious, proposed to call upon Mr. Spivey at ten o'clock the following morning!

I believe that Spivey was nearly wild with excitement all that day, and I feel certain that he did not sleep a wink all night, so overjoyed was he at the thought of capturing this very great man. He came bright and early to the office on the auspicious morning and sat in great dignity in his sanctum, while Tom Christmas and I lingered on some pretext or another in the shop, for we, too, were foolish enough to be curious about the new "hawthur."

At five minutes past ten a tall young gentleman, well-dressed, of well-bred appearance, but not otherwise remarkable or distinguishable from the type which you may see in Bond Street or Piccadilly any morning, entered Mr. Spivey's shop ​and advanced to the counter. Tom Christmas stepped forward to meet him.

"I wish to see," began the stranger, and then he stopped and looked hard at the head clerk. "Good Heavens!" he cried, "isn't that Tom Christmas? Tom, my dear fellow, what are you doing here? I thought you were dead."

He held out his hand and Tom Christmas took it, looking like a man who walks in his sleep.

"It's—it's—it's Frank Lestrange, isn't it?" he said, staring at the other's face as though he were not sure of his guess.

"Hush! Frank Lestrange once, Tom, but Rupert Tremayne now. Hah, hah, hah! Rupert Tremayne, indeed. The D——— of C———! The E——— of F———! But, Tom, what are you doing here, and where have you been these six years past?"

He laughed again, and sat himself down on the edge of the counter, seeming very much at ​home, and very well satisfied with himself and the world in general. Tom Christmas, who still appeared mystified, stood staring at him.

"It's so long since I saw an old friend," he said, at last, "that I seem to lose my head now that I do see one. So you are Rupert Tremayne?"

"I am that mysterious personage, Tom. But tell it not in Gath, publish it not, and so on. And now, Tom Christmas, whom I remember as a hard-working student and dangerous batsman, what are you doing here?"

He looked round him with contemptuous eyes, taking in every detail of Mr. Spivey's dingy establishment. He was clearly not impressed by what he saw.

"You don't mean to say, Tom Christmas, that you are—are employed here? You, with your talents and scholarship?"

"I am employed here, and am glad to be, Lestrange. Talents and scholarship in the ​bush are not worth so much per week in the hand."

"But your talents were in hand, man. But there, you know best; and you have not told me all. We must have a chat together, some day soon. Is your father dead, Tom?"

"Six, nearly seven years ago, Lestrange."

"Was that why you left Oxford so suddenly?"

"It was."

"Poor old Tom. Ah, well, time changes everything. You are Tom, a publisher's clerk. I am Rupert Tremayne, the successful author. Tom, you once lent me twenty pounds. Will you let me pay it back?"

"If I really did lend you it, Frank. But are you sure?"

"I am certain. Let me recall the incident. Do you remember a bad boy who had been betting and could not raise all the money and went to the good boy?"

"Who happened to have it? Yes, I re​member. You can give me the twenty pounds, Frank. I can do with it nowadays."

"Let me lend you some, Tom, do!"

"I don't owe anybody a penny, Frank. When I do, I will borrow something. Not before."

"As you will. Well, now, I came here to see an individual named Spivey. Funny name, Spivey. I once knew a man who made coffins with a similar name—the man, I mean. But it was Twivey and not Spivey. Where is Spivey, Tom Christmas?"

At that moment Mr. Spivey, who was beginning to think the very great man somewhat unpunctual, opened the door of his office, and came into the shop. Seeing a well-dressed young gentleman sitting on the counter in conversation with Tom Christmas, he strolled towards them, his thumbs in his waistcoat-pockets.

"Mr. Spivey," said Tom Christmas, "this is Mr. Rupert Tremayne."

​Mr. Spivey turned round and stared in astonishment. The very great man sitting on his counter and talking to his clerk! He opened his mouth and fairly gasped.

"My dear sir," he said, when speech returned to him, "how do you do? I was not aware that you had arrived. Christmas, why didn't you show Mr. Tremayne into my office at once?"

He held out his hand to Lestrange as he spoke. The rising "hawthur" looked at the hand, but did not take it.

"Er, Mr. Spivey, I presume?" he said.

"That's my name, sir. Come into my office," said Spivey, drawing back the insulted member.

"Tha—anks, but I've not quite finished with my friend Mr. Christmas, yet. Tom," he continued, turning his back on Spivey, who stood transfixed with surprise, "when will you come and dine with me? And shall it be at the club or at my chambers? To-morrow evening let it be."

​"I will think of it, Frank. I am not much given to dining out."

"But you will dine with me, my old friend. Think it over while I speak to Mr. Spivey."

He turned away, and having intimated to Mr. Spivey that he was at that gentleman's service, they went into the private office. As they passed my desk, I had a good look at Lestrange's face. He had good features, and was what women call handsome—that is to say, he had a straight nose, and a beautiful moustache, and curly brown hair, and he held himself erect, and looked very distinguished without seeming to know it. His face was very brown, as if with travel or exposure, and across his right cheek there was the distinct mark of a sword cut. But I did not like him. There was something in his eyes, which I could not fathom, and there were lines about the corners of his mouth which told of evil passions. I mistrusted him from the beginning.

​Mr. Spivey, in his excitement, forgot to close the door of his private room, and as my desk was very near, I was able to catch every syllable of the conversation which followed.

"You know my clerk, Christmas, I find?" said Mr. Spivey, as a pleasant way of beginning the interview.

"Mr. Christmas is an old college friend of mine," said Lestrange.

"Ah," said Spivey, "he's a very excellent servant, very excellent indeed. I took him on as a sort of charity, you know."

"I am not anxious to know anything of your motive in employing Mr. Christmas, sir. I dare say he does a day's work for a day's wages."

This was another snub for Spivey. He shuffled about in his chair and I have no doubt got very red. Lestrange continued.

"You wrote to me about a new story," he said. "My hands are very full, but it is always ​well to make hay when the sun shines, and you spoke of exceedingly liberal terms, so that I felt compelled to call upon you. May I ask you to explain definitely what it is you want?"

I don't think Mr. Spivey had ever been addressed in this fashion before. Most of the "hawthurs" who came to him were very poor-spirited creatures, and used to tremble in his presence. It was a very humble Spivey who proceeded to unfold to Mr. Rupert Tremayne his scheme for a series of shilling novels.

"It has occurred to me," concluded Mr. Spivey, "that you would contribute the first story, and I am prepared to be very liberal, very liberal indeed."

"Very good. Let us come to terms. How many words do you require?"

Mr. Spivey made an elaborate calculation.

"About eighty thousand, Mr. Tremayne."

"Very good. And what do you offer for the copyright?"

​Mr. Spivey moved very uncomfortably in his arm-chair. His ideas of liberality were limited, and he felt like the girl feels who is going to take a header into the cold sea and trembles at the thought.

"What do you think, Mr. Tremayne?" he said, as a feeler.

"Oh," said Mr. Tremayne, "if you wish it I will tell you my terms; in fact it will save trouble if I do, as I should not accept less. I will write you a story, containing eighty thousand words, for a thousand pounds."

I heard Mr. Spivey jump. In my mind's eye I could see Mr. Spivey turn pale.

"Pooh!" he said, after he had recovered his breath. "My dear sir! Why there are not five people living who can get that price. Preposterous!"

"Good morning, Mr. Spivey," said Lestrange. "I am sorry you have put me to the trouble of calling here for nothing."

​"Can't you really take less?" asked Spivey, unwilling to let him go. "Say a hundred now, and a royalty."

"I have told you my terms, sir. Good morning."

"But, my dear sir———"

The independent "hawthur," however, was gone; and Mr. Spivey, flying after him to the office door, saw him walk up to Tom Christmas, say a few words to him, and go away with a hand-shake to the shabby clerk whom Mr. Spivey had taken on for charity. Mr. Spivey's very great man had escaped him.

"You know Tremayne, I find, Christmas," said Spivey, sidling up to Tom after a time.

"He is an old college friend of mine," answered Tom.

"And is Tremayne his real name, Christmas?"

"No, sir. I am not at liberty to give my friend's real name," said Tom, who knew quite ​well what Spivey was after. And with that Spivey was fain to be content.

We heard nothing more of the shilling series, nor of the tremendous rise in our wages; and the name of Rupert Tremayne was as an eyesore to Mr. Spivey, especially when he found that that gentleman's books continued to sell in enormous quantities, and that other publishers were making fortunes out of him.

On the second day after Tremayne, or, as I shall call him in future, Lestrange, had been to Spivey's, Tom Christmas arrayed himself in an old-fashioned dress suit and went away from the office to dine with his old friend. And that night Maggie Primrose went without her usual walk. But she was glad and proud to know that Tom had come across some one who knew him in his more prosperous days.

It was late when Tom returned, and everybody but myself had retired to rest. He sat down to tell me all about it.

​"So you have returned from your dissipation, Tom. Miss Julia has been much alarmed lest you should come home in a state of intoxication."

"And yet I am quite sober, Len. I dare say my head will ache to-morrow morning, though, for I am not used to dining so late. It seems as if I had gone back to the old life a little to-night."

"I am glad, Tom. It will have done you good."

He shook his head as if in some doubt as to the truth of my assertion.

"I don't know, Len, I don't know. I have dropped away from it all, and it is, perhaps, not well that I should catch glimpses of the lazy, easy life that I once lived."

"If I were a Grand Inquisitor, Tom Christmas, you should burn for that heretical statement. You lazy? Never!"

"Lazier than I am now, Len, at any rate. I was as a lily of the field; I toiled not, neither did I spin—unless you can call sweating after Greek ​verbs toiling, and spinning yarns labour. Will you smoke, Len? See, I have got some cigars. Lestrange filled a case and put it into my pocket."

"Who is Lestrange, Tom?" I asked, after we had lighted that gentleman's weeds and made ourselves comfortable before the kitchen fire. Miss Julia only allowed us to smoke in the kitchen. "I know, of course, that he is a successful maker of unhealthy fiction, though I will say no more of that in consideration of the fact that I am smoking his remarkably good tobacco. But who is he?"

"Lestrange, Len, is a fellow who read with my father for a few weeks one summer, and afterwards was at Balliol with me. I have very little idea as to who his people are, for I never remember hearing him speak of them. Some one used to find him money and pay his debts at Oxford, but I don't think he had many relations, for he never went anywhere during the vacations as other fellows did. When we went home he used to go to Italy or Switzerland and come back ​with plenty to talk about, but with none of those home-for-the-holidays reminiscences that other fellows had."

"And what made him turn author, Tom?"

"I don't know, Len, unless it was that he wanted a new amusement, or that he has a natural gift that way. He has been telling me his story to-night. He has seen some strange things and people."

"I am all attention, Tom Christmas."

"You know, Len, that I left Oxford very suddenly. Very few of my friends there knew what became of me. It's a strange thing that when a fellow has money in his pocket he likes to mix with his fellows; when he has none he likes to be by himself. That was my case. When I found that I should have to work I seemed to lose all inclination to let my old friends know of my whereabouts."

"And yet, Tom, most men would have gone to their old friends for help."

​"Perhaps. I didn't. I didn't like to. It was in consequence of this that I lost sight of Lestrange. He, it seems, came of age soon after I left Oxford, and found himself a rich man. Very soon after that he was rusticated. Always a wild sort of fellow, Lestrange. I don't think he cared two pins for the rustication. He went abroad, and has been travelling up and down the world for five years, meeting with all manner of strange adventures. He has seen some fighting by land and sea; has been nearly to the North Pole, and round the globe six or seven times, and, having got sick and tired of it, came home last year and settled down in some particularly comfortable rooms in Jermyn Street."

"But the authorship?"

"I don't think Lestrange much cares to talk about authorship, his own at any rate. He published the poems a couple of years ago, and he told me to-night that the book didn't sell at all, until this novel came out. He ​wrote the novel after he came home—for amusement, he says. It is selling enormously, Len. The two hundredth thousand is out this week."

"What did he get for it, Tom? Did he tell you that?"

"He got twenty pounds, Len. Twenty pounds for the copyright."

"And he refused Spivey's hundred?"

"Ah! but he has got some tremendously good commissions. Much as he professes to despise money, he is a keen hand at a bargain. He is writing a tale for Sheets and Binder for a thousand, and another for a syndicate for another thousand; and the first novel is being dramatised under his own supervision."

"He is a lucky fellow, your friend Lestrange, Tom Christmas. Do you like him?"

"Do I like him? Why, Len?"

"Because I should like to know whether you do or not."

"Yes," he said; "I do like him. I think ​him a very clever fellow—a man with great talents. Then, too, he is kindly and generous to a fault. He would do anything for any one to whom he took a fancy."

"Do you know, Tom, that I am a great judge of character? Now, I will tell you what I thought of Lestrange's face. He is a creature of strong impulses. He will follow whatever pleases him at the time, with the ardour of a bloodhound, and he will tire of it just as quickly. Am I right?"

"I believe you are, Len. He is impulsive."

"Again, he is an egotist. An egotist, Tom Christmas, of the worst sort. I don't think he would go about talking of himself or his own deeds; but I will tell you what he would do. He would make his own will his idol, and spare nothing and nobody in order to worship it. Am I right again?"

"I believe you are, Len. There are excuses for him, though. He has practically lived by ​himself all his life. He has always been his own master. No one has ever had any real control over him; he has been able to gratify every wish as it came up. A man like that, Len, must needs be selfish. And yet he is open-handed and generous to the last degree."

"As so many selfish men are, Tom. Well, Mr. Lestrange seems to be settling down to authorship, at any rate. Let us hope he will stick to it. What did he think of your prospects, Tom?"

"He didn't like them, Leonard. He asked me to become his secretary, amanuensis, or whatever you like to call it, at a salary twice as large as my present one."

"And you accepted?"

"No," he said, "I did not accept. You see, Len, I know that Lestrange is variable and eccentric. In six months he may tire of London and sigh for Thibet, for which outlandish country he would at once start. Then where should I ​be? No; badly as I am paid at Spivey's, I shall not leave my present post. I can keep out of debt at present. I know that Spivey will never let me go if he can help it. And I have learnt, Len, to be content with little. So long as I have my health and enough to live on, I shall be satisfied. I dare say Spivey will some day see his way to giving me five pounds a week. And with that and Maggie, I shall be satisfied, ay, more than satisfied, for life."

"Where be all thy dreams of wealth, Tom Christmas?"

"Where they always were, my dear. I shan't refuse wealth if it comes to me, Len. But I'm not going to kill myself in order to get it. 'Man wants but little here below,' you know. Did you see Maggie to-night, Len?"

"I did, Tom. After I had eaten my evening meal and heard Miss Julia tell your mother some wondrous anecdotes about the late St. ​Emma Jane Piper, I walked round to the High Street and called upon Mr. Migson and Miss Primrose. Those Migsons, Tom, are particularly nice people."

"They are—good, honest folk as ever lived. And what was Maggie doing? Poor little soul, I was wondering all the time how she was getting along."

"My dear Tom, she was getting along splendidly. It being nine o'clock, Mr. Migson had closed his shop and was a-washing of himself in the scullery. The parlour was beautifully warm and bright, and Miss Maggie was reading by the fire. Mrs. Migson was cooking something beautiful for supper. I am almost certain it was beefsteak and onions. It smelt so grand that I felt hungry. Mrs. Migson pressed me very much to stay and eat, but I declined. I am glad, Tom, very glad, that the little Primrose has such good friends in these humble people."

​"And so am I, Len."

"And I have got a piece of news for you, Tom. Old Migson told me to-night that he and his missus have long desired to possess a piano, Migson being musically inclined, and his wife having once possessed a very fine 'seconds' voice. And to-day he has bought one—thirty-five pound ten, Tom Christmas—and you and I are to go to-morrow night, if we will be so condescending, and hear missie try it."

"What good folks! Ah, Len, the upper crust little knows what a lot of real gentility is hidden in the lower."

"Tom Christmas, thou art a Tory! Upper crust, indeed! And pray which is the lower?"

We went upstairs to bed then. As we were separating at the door of my room, Tom told me that Lestrange was coming to have supper with us some day, soon.

"He asked after my mother and Julia, to-night," he said, "and seemed pleased at the ​thought of seeing them again. Len, shall we invite Spivey to come? How proud he would be to put his legs under the table with those of so famous a 'hawthur'!"

"And that table the table of his clerk. No, Tom, not Spivey, please. Will Maggie come?"

"Of course, Len. I told Lestrange all about her to-night, and showed him her portrait. Yes, Maggie will be there."

There was once a spider which possessed a very grand parlour, and there was a fly which—but everybody knows the rest.