You

OU'LL go through Belgium, find your way to Cologne, and work quietly round to Strasbourg. Mind, we are French, and if you can give the Germans a rub without overstepping the bounds of veracity, don't hesitate to pitch into them.'

The time, the autumn of 1870; the place, the editor's room of a certain London daily newspaper; the actors, the chief of the said London daily newspaper, and my

self.

I had been knocking about town for some time without finding employment. To tell the truth, I was a little bit depressed, as I had just assisted at the demise of a literary venture of my own inauguration. For months I had struggled with printers and papermakers, engravers and publishers, and last, but not least, my own sanguine hopes. I had tried very hard to prove to my own satisfaction that a pound contained more than twenty shillings, and a shilling more than a dozen pence; but the end, long delayed, had come at last. My contributors had bidden me a sorrowful farewell; my editorial sanctum knew me no longer; the shutters of the office were up, and a placard affixed to the front door announced to those it might concern that the place was once more to let.' One day I was walking moodily down the Strand, thinking sorrowfully of the past glories of my late paper, 'The Phoenix,' and conjecturing whether it ever would be worthy of its name, and rise once more, when I was startled out of my reverie by the pain of a rather hard blow on the shoulder, and the sound of a very hearty

voice in my ear. I turned round quickly and found a smiling face at my elbow.

'What! you don't know me, old fellow?'

I stared at my questioner, and for the moment certainly found it difficult to recognise him. He was roughly clad in very warm clothing, wore a billy-cock hat, and possessed a beard of Crimean proportions; at length it dawned upon me that the stranger was a very dear old friend of mine-one with whom I had not come in contact since I had left school, some ten years before. I took him by the hand and cried, 'What! Charley Scrubey! is it you, or your ghost?'

It is certainly not my ghost,' said my new-found acquaintance, although lately I have been more than once in a position to permit of my spirit winging its wondrous flight.'

'What do you mean?'

'Simply this,' replied Scrubey, 'I have been travelling in France with the Francs-tireurs, gentlemen who, had they nothing better to shoot, would derive considerable amusement by potting at their grandmothers. I'm a "Special Correspondent," old man-what do you think of that? But, come, you don't look very cheerful; what are you going to do tonight?'

'Nothing,' said I, 'unless I take a walk on Waterloo Bridge, to have a look at the river by gaslight.'

That's rather an unhealthy recreation at this time of the year. If you have nothing better to do, come and dine with me. I will take no refusal. So mind you are

at the Columbus by seven o'clock sharp.'

Finding, on examination, that I had nothing better to do, I dressed myself in the regulation suit of black and joined Scrubey at his club at the hour he had specified. I fear he must have found me very bad company, for, after the claret and biscuits had been put upon the table, he pressed me to tell him what was bothering me, and, as a reward for his sympathy, was entertained with the doleful story of the failure of The Phoenix.'

He listened attentively, and when I paused at the conclusion of my narrative, turned towards me and said, 'Well, old boy, I'm sorry to hear this; but the longest lane has a turning. A very original remark, I'm aware, but not without consolation. What do you

intend to do next?'

'I haven't the faintest idea; perhaps criticise third-rate poetry, and poison myself that way; or take a theatre, and ruin myself finally in a fortnight; or jump from London Bridge into the Thames.'

then answered, with much deliberation, 'If I can, I will.'

give

This reply seemed to Scrubey great satisfaction, and he forthwith commenced an elaborate dissertation upon the art of obtaining 'special' appointments. He showed me conclusively that a man of determination, with some literary ability, could easily obtain one, and offered to give me a letter of introduction to the editor of the 'London Daily Mercury' (as I shall, with your permission, call the newspaper that secured my services). In fact he straightened the way and cleared the road for my self-banishment from England. That very evening my credentials to my future chief were handed over to me, and I determined upon presenting them the next morning. Scrubey separated from me with a hearty shake of the hand.

With your reputation, old fellow, for fearless writing and just criticism [this was a soothing compliment to console me for my latest failure], you are sure to get the post. I don't know where they'll send you, but if you should be despatched to Paris, I shall be happy to welcome you to a banquet consisting of hashed rats, and a bottle of the very best Burgundy.'

Thanking Scrubey for his proffered hospitality, I put on my Ulster coat, lighted a cigar, and left the club. The next morning I called at the office of the 'London Daily Mercury' and found the editor willing, nay anxious, to add me to his staff. It happened that a 'special' was needed for the German army before Strasbourg, and I was at once selected for the post. The first paragraph of this article gives a summary of my instructions. I was to proceed to my duties immediately after providing myself with the necessary outfit. The editor, in wishing me bon voyage,' im