t recreation almost in
the nature of a holiday, after the labours of producing his last book.

Consequently, as soon as Sir Simon had left, the Writer selected his
favourite pipe, filled it with his choicest tobacco, and having lit it,
stretched himself at ease upon the most comfortable divan in his rooms,
and thought out subtle schemes.

There he lay laughing and chuckling for all the world like a wicked
Puck, bent upon mischief, joyfully and solely devised for a confusion
of his enemies, particularly Mr. Learned Bore.

Cheered and emboldened by such happy reflections, the Writer hit upon a
scheme haphazard which for sheer unscrupulous impudence would baffle
all description; gradually embroidering his machinations with that
whimsicality that had always served him so well as an author, until his
plans appeared to be complete.

"Very fortunate," murmured the Writer as he knocked out his pipe, "that
those kids told me all about the Pleasant-Faced Lion's party. Great
heavens, what a chance! and it will be worth a fifty-pound note to have
Lal brought into Court and to hear the Griffin's song sang in Court,
and sung it shall be, only I must alter the words to fit the occasion."
Here the Writer sat upon the edge of the table and rocked with
delighted laughter.

"Ha! ha! ha!" gurgled the Writer, "only one man in London who can set
it, and, by Jove, I'll ring him up on the 'phone at once; a few
judicious rehearsals--before Vellum and Crackles, the solicitors, are
communicated with--to say nothing of Gentle Gammon, and--ha! ha!
ha!--what a glorious joke. What's Billy Cracker's number in the book?"

A quarter of an hour afterwards, in answer to a most urgent summons by
telephone, Mr. William Cracker made his appearance in the Writer's
rooms.

Mr. William Cracker, called Billy by his friends, was rapidly rising to
fame as a writer of musical comedy--a tall, sleek personage, with
straw-coloured hair brilliantined very flat over his head, and
carefully parted in the centre, wearing a monocle in one eye, which
appeared to grow there, and was always lavishly adorned as an exact and
living replica of the latest fashion plate.

Billy greeted the Writer and stared at him through his eyeglass
quizzically.

"Whenever I hear you give that Mephistophelean chuckle at the end of
the 'phone," commented Billy, "I always know you have got some
particularly impish scheme on. Well, what is it?"

"Oh, Billy, Billy," chuckled the Writ