No. MCCLXXVII.

VOL. CCXI.

assured, and rich reward when goal is attained. Must be tall, strong, handsome, and of a romantic nature. Apply by letter, enclosing photograph, to-Box 002."

"Bubbly, am I handsome and of a romantic nature? demanded Neil McNeil, glancing up from the paper with a humorous twist to his mouth.

"Hic," replied the Honourable Thomas Owen with difficulty.

He was writing the weekly lay sermon of the 'Better Land'-a sermon that thousands of innocent and pious subscribers would swallow with gusto on the ensuing Sunday

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propped him up on a pile of dusty back numbers, stuck a pen in his hand, and conveyed to him, with difficulty, what was required of him. He never wrote his weekly sermon sober. He said that it required two gallons of beer to compensate him for the moral degradation of perpetrating such slosh. At the moment of McNeil's interruption sentimental tears trickled from his bloodshot eyes as he scribbled some more than usually sugary platitude.

Neil McNeil looked at him with a smile, in which amusement was blended with pity and disgust.

"Look at him, Maggie," he said, with a wave of his hand.

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"If only Life-long Abstainer,' or Truly Penitent,' or any other of your letter-bag friends could see him now, where would the circulation be?Bubbly, you crapulous winebibber, stop casting your pearls before our readers for a moment, and give me your candid opinion-am I handsome and of a romantic disposition?"

The Honourable Thomas Owen looked up blearily from his task. He was small, shabby, and unshaven, his sandy hair and incipient beard lending him a weak, effeminate air that was intensified by the glistening on his cheek of the maudlin tears compounded of cheap beer and cheaper sentiment. Yet was he no fool, but a journalist who could place his copy where he pleased. He was recognised in Fleet Street as a standing authority on all matters of sport, and his articles were in continuous request. As he was without ambition, and as his desires did not go beyond beer, he rarely wrote unless he was thirsty and had not the wherewithal to quench his thirst.

The lay sermon for the 'Better Land' was a labour of love. Maggie Lingford, who had obtained the position of editor by sheer bluff, had not the experience to carry the job through, and had begged him, as an old friend, to come to her aid. Each Monday night therefore Bubbly appeared, exhaling the fumes of beer, and helped with the make-up of the paper.

Neil McNeil was in a different category. A demobilised officer with no resources, he had drifted to Fleet Street and picked up a livelihood by such vicarious journalism as as the kindness of a notedly generous profession could help him to. He had done work that Owen should have done at times, and had accompanied him to the musty office of the 'Better Land,' where Maggie Lingford had taken compassion on him and permitted him to collect religious snippets from the daily papers for her own pages.

Bubbly looked up at McNeil stupidly. His mind was still working in terms of "be good, sweet maid, and let who will be clever," and he hiccupped plaintively. McNeil leant across the table and shook him.

"Wake up, wake up, old thing," he said, as he swayed the unfortunate to and fro at the imminent risk of displacing the pile of 'Better Lands' on which he was propped precariously. "What of my

beauty and romance?"

"You've disart-hic-ulated my train of thought," said Owen sadly. "Wot you want ? "

McNeil pushed his paper under the other's eyes. "Read," he said dramatically.

There was silence as the Honourable Thomas puzzled his way through the "agony."

"D'you mean to 'nsinuate that you-you-contemplate an appl-hic-ation for thish job?"

"I know," said McNeil, with the first hint of bitterness in his voice. "She will be overcome with maudlin sentiment and fall on my neck. I don't think it's worth it."

"I dunno. I believe Maggie's on a good egg," said the Honourable Thomas, rousing from a relapse into the state of semi-imbecility in which he composed his lay sermons. sermons. "Have a shot at it. Le' me write the letter. Can't do any harm, an' if the deal comes off, I take ten per cent comm-hicsion. Wot d'ye say?"

He looked up with a halfhumorous, half-dazed expression, and glanced from one to the other expectantly.

McNeil laughed.

The Honourable Thomas Owen tore off the page upon which he had been scribbling his sermon, and his fluent pen ran over the blank sheet without a pause or hesitation.

"Madam," he wrote, "your appeal goes to my heart. What can I say of myself? Would you have me boast of my prowess? Would I answer to your need did I do so! No. I have fought through the war. I have been wounded in my country's service. I have risen to field rank through my own efforts. I have been cast aside like a soiled glove. Need I say more? No. You will understand. Whatever the danger, whatever the risk, think of me as one ready to dare all, to stake all, on one throw in your service. I enclose my photograph."

"And if that doesn't fetch her, the whole damn thing's a fraud," declared Bubbly with a final hiccup.

"You don't imagine for a moment that I'd send in tosh like that?" said McNeil indignantly. dignantly. "If you do, you are more hopelessly inebriated than I gave you credit for, Bubbly."

"Oh, Neil, it isn't tosh," protested Maggie Lingford. It's a beautiful letter."

"You see," said the Honourable Thomas, with a complacent smile, "it appeals to her. How much more will it go home to the romant-hic heart of the advertiser. Come on, Neil, make a fair copy, and let me get on with Maggie's sermon.”