e advantage was that while
earning a small income he had time to continue his studies; but the
deadly monotony of the work had appalled him, and upon the death of his
mother he had shaken the cloying dust of the City from his brain and
joined a small "fit-up" theatrical company. On the stage he had remained
for another eighteen months; had played all roles, from "Romeo" to "Paul
Pry," had helped to paint the scenery, had assisted in the bill-posting.
The latter, so he told me, he had found one of the most difficult of
accomplishments, the paste-laden poster having an innate tendency to
recoil upon the amateur's own head, and to stick there. Wearying of the
stage proper, he had joined a circus company, had been "Signor Ricardo,
the daring bare-back rider," also one of the "Brothers Roscius in their
marvellous trapeze act;" inclining again towards respectability, had
been a waiter for three months at Ostend; from that, a footman.

"One never knows," remarked Dan. "I may come to be a society novelist;
if so, inside knowledge of the aristocracy will give me decided
advantage over the majority of my competitors."

Other callings he had sampled: had tramped through Ireland with a
fiddle; through Scotland with a lecture on Palestine, assisted by
dissolving views; had been a billiard-marker; next a schoolmaster. For
the last three months he had been a journalist, dramatic and musical
critic to a Sunday newspaper. Often had I dreamt of such a position for
myself.

"How did you obtain it?" I asked.

"The idea occurred to me," replied Dan, "late one afternoon, sauntering
down the Strand, wondering what I should do next. I was on my beam ends,
with only a few shillings in my pocket; but luck has always been with
me. I entered the first newspaper office I came to, walked upstairs to
the first floor, and opening the first door without knocking, passed
through a small, empty room into a larger one, littered with books and
papers. It was growing dark. A gentleman of extremely youthful figure
was running round and round, cursing to himself because of three things:
he had upset the ink, could not find the matches, and had broken the
bell-pull. In the gloom, assuming him to be the office boy, I thought
it would be fun to mistake him for the editor. As a matter of fact,
he turned out to be the editor. I lit the gas for him, and found him
another ink-pot. He was a slim young man with the voice and manner of a
schoolboy. I don't suppose