The president did not say.

"A thesis," he said, "is generally a paper with a statement of the line
of action you propose to adopt, subject to the Society's approval.
Each member has his specialty--as law, art, divinity, literature, and
the like."

"Does the probationer devote himself exclusively during these three
months to his thesis?"

"On the contrary, he never has so much liberty as at this period. He
is expected to be practising."

"Practising?"

"Well, experimenting, getting his hand in, so to speak. The member
acts under instructions only, but the probationer just does what he
thinks best."

"There is a man on my stair," said Andrew, after a moment's
consideration, "who asks his friends in every Friday night, and recites
to them with his door open. I think I should like to begin with him."

"As a society we do not recognise these private cases. The public gain
is so infinitesimal. We had one probationer who constructed a very
ingenious water-butt for boys. Another had a scheme for clearing the
streets of the people who get in the way. He got into trouble about
some perambulators. Let me see your hands."

They stopped at a lamp-post.

"They are large, which is an advantage," said the president, fingering
Andrew's palms; "but are they supple?"

Andrew had thought very little about it, and he did not quite
comprehend.

"The hands," explained the president, "are perhaps the best natural
weapon; but, of course, there are different ways of doing it."

The young Scotchman's brain, however, could not keep pace with his
companion's words, and the president looked about him for an
illustration.

They stopped at Gower Street station and glanced at the people coming
out.

None of them was of much importance, but the president left them alone.

Andrew saw what he meant now, and could not but admire his forbearance.

They turned away, but just as they emerged into the blaze of Tottenham
Court Road they ran into two men, warmly shaking hands with each other
before they parted. One of them wore an eye-glass.

"Chamberlain!" exclaimed the president, rushing after him.

"Did you recognise the other?" said Andrew, panting at his heels.

"No! who was it?"

"Stead, of the 'Pall Mall Gazette.'"

"Great God," cried the president, "two at a time!"

He turned and ran back. Then he stopped irresolutely. He could not
follow the one for thought of the other.

CHAPTER IV

The London cabman'