"That's the real editor," said Luard. "The head printer. If this had got in it would have cost us a couple of thousand. That's the worst of amateur proprietors. Well, don't forget what I've said. By the way," he added, "have you any particular line?"

"Not that I know of," said Rudd.

"That's a pity," Luard remarked. "The good journalist knows something about everything, and everything about something. At least that used to be the rule. Never mind, there's no vacancy just now," he added, perhaps conscious that it was hardly the game to deprive Esculapius of such a lieutenant. "But if any were to occur may I send you word?"

Rudd assured him most cordially that he might. "Meanwhile let me have something now and then. I hope they're paying you all right? We're a mean lot here."

Rudd said that he thought the payment was splendid.

"You won't think so long," said Luard. "Goodbye."

He accompanied Rudd to the door and shook his hand warmly.

Rudd descended the stairs conscious that there was nothing he would not do for that man: conscious also that this was the life for him.

He returned in the depths to the Hospital. That journalism was his destiny, he knew, but it would distress his mother, the strength of whose desire to see him a healer of men was only equalled by the thor

oughness with which she detested daily papers and all their sensationalism. The evening papers especially, with their steady passion for winners; and betting the curse of the country.

Rudd took his perplexities to Uncle Ben.

"Well," said Uncle Ben when Rudd had finished, "what do you want? Why do you come to me?" "I want advice," said Rudd.

"Rubbish," said Uncle Ben. "You don't want advice-you want support in a line you have decided upon."

"But what about mother?" Rudd asked. "She'll be so disappointed, and it was her money too."

"You can't help that," said Uncle Ben. "There's been a mistake; don't make it worse by being too weak to stop it."

"You really think I ought to chuck medicine?" Rudd exclaimed in delighted surprise.

"Of course," said Uncle Ben. "There's no question about it. But we must be a little gradual. When do the holidays begin?"

Rudd told him.

"Very well, then, tell your friend Luard that you will be free on that date, and tell your mother that you have accepted a holiday task and are earning a little money. By the end of the holidays, if you keep her informed as to your progress and so on, she will be prepared for you to continue in the new line altogether. At any rate the shock won't be so severe." "What a brick you are!" Rudd said.

"We're always bricks when our advice chimes with the wishes of those who want it," Uncle Ben replied. "That's easy. The difficulty is to be thought a brick when one gives unpopular counsel."

But fate, as it happened, was more of a brick even than Uncle Ben.

Thus. Luard had an elderly father. This father, who had long been in poor health, died unexpectedly. Luard was called away, and his place of editor taken by some one under him, a promotion which made a vacancy in the writing department. Luard had but an hour or so to arrange about these displacements, and one of his telegrams was to Rudd.

"If you could possibly manage to be at the office at nine o'clock to-morrow morning, it would be a great help to us in an emergency," he telegraphed.

There was but a month of the term to go, and Rudd did not hesitate in writing the reply: "Expect me at nine."

He slept little that night for fear of being late. The next morning he went to the office, expecting to stay, if at all, for a fortnight. He remained for seven years.

W

CHAPTER XXIII

RUDD VISITS OLYMPUS

ALKING up Fleet Street one morning, Rudd ran into Phil Bendy, whom he had not seen since he left school. Now, though not more than six or seven years older, Bendy was a raffish Bohemian, with a cloak over his shoulder instead of a coat, and a sombrero. He resembled, in fact, a stage poet, and attracted amused eyes.

In an adjacent bar Phil told his story. He was a journalist and a dramatist; he had already had two plays accepted for provincial production, and not a few well-known actors and actresses were his friends. He also knew some eminent writers, and he reeled off their names and foibles with a familiarity which made Rudd, who had merely read their books, gasp. Why should Bendy have been admitted to such terms of intimacy? What could they see in him?

Rudd expressed the wish that he, too, might be an observer, however unobserved and silent, of literary eminence and in particular of the great Voaden, the author of Night and the Stars.

Phil replied that as it chanced nothing was easier.

"Come as my guest," he said, "to the next dinner of the Vagrants and you'll see Voaden. He's the guest of the evening. Every one will be there."

Rudd accepted.

"You'll have to belong," Phil continued. "It's jolly useful, I can tell you. There are lots of men there who can help you."

"I don't see why they should help me, a perfect stranger, who has done nothing," Rudd replied.

"Yes, they will, if you make up to them," said Phil. "I don't think I shall do that," said Rudd, “but I'd like to see it once, anyway"; and so it was arranged.

This club, which was famous among the literary dining societies of London, met periodically in a large room in one of the great middle-class restaurants, ate, drank, talked and made speeches.

For the dinner itself Rudd cared nothing. It was indifferent and scramblingly served, and since Bendy devoted himself to some distinguished luminary on his left and Rudd's right-hand partner had neighbouring friends, he was left to himself and to the private identification of the company by means of a printed chart.

Of course he sought first for Voaden, and was pleased with his appearance. He looked quiet and strong.

Then he fixed the others one by one and had the usual shocks. Why we should always anticipate such beauty in the literary physiognomy is a marvel; but