Old Man," and "Legislation by
Picnic" may all be traced to the struggling young man from Wheens.[1]

He supplied the material for obituary notices.

When the newspaper placards announced the serious illness of a
distinguished man, he made up characteristic anecdotes about his
childhood, his reputation at school, his first love, and sent them as
the reminiscences of a friend to the great London dailies. These were
the only things of his they used. As often as not the invalid got
better, and then Andrew went without a dinner.

Once he offered his services to a Conservative statesman; at another
time he shot himself in the coat in Northumberland Street, Strand, to
oblige an evening paper (five shillings).

He fainted in the pit of a theatre to the bribe of an emotional
tragedian (a guinea).

He assaulted a young lady and her aunt with a view to robbery, in a
quiet thoroughfare, by arrangement with a young gentleman, who rescued
them and made him run (ten shillings).

It got into the papers that he had fled from the wax policeman at
Tussaud's (half-a-crown).

More than once he sold his body in advance to the doctors, and was
never able to buy it out.[2]

It would be a labour, thankless as impossible, to recover now all the
devices by which Andrew disgraced his manhood during these weeks rather
than die. As well count the "drinks" an actor has in a day.

It is not our part to climb down into the depths after him. He
re-appeared eventually, or this record would never have been written.

During this period of gloom, Clarrie wrote him frequently long and
tender epistles.

More strictly, the minister wrote them, for he had the gift of
beautiful sentiment in letters, which had been denied to her.

She copied them, however, and signed them, and they were a great
consolation.

The love of a good girl is a priceless possession, or rather, in this
case, of a good minister.

So long as you do not know which, it does not make much difference.

At times Andrew's reason may have been unhinged, less on account of his
reverses than because no one spoke to him.

There were days and nights when he rushed all over London.

In the principal streets the stolid-faced Scotchman in a straw hat
became a familiar figure.

Strange fancies held him. He stood for an hour at a time looking at
his face in a shop-window.

The boot-blacks pointed at him and he disappeared down passages.

He shook his fist at the 'bus-conducto