f singular colour, and with his collar
unbuttoned (he wore no tie) to leave his throat at ease as he bent
myopically over the paper, he was writing at express speed, evidently
in the full rush of the ardour of composition. The veins of his forehead
were dilated, and his chin pushed forward in a way that made one think
of a racing horse.

'Are you too busy to talk?' asked Biffen, going to his side.

'I am! Upon my soul I am!' exclaimed the other looking up in alarm. 'For
the love of Heaven don't put me out! A quarter of an hour!'

'All right. I'll come up again.'

The friends went downstairs and turned over the papers.

'Now let's try him again,' said Biffen, when considerably more than
the requested time had elapsed. They went up, and found Mr Sykes in an
attitude of melancholy meditation. He had turned back his coat
sleeve, had buttoned his collar, and was eyeing the slips of completed
manuscript. Biffen presented his companion, and Mr Sykes greeted the
novelist with much geniality.

'What do you think this is?' he exclaimed, pointing to his work. 'The
first instalment of my autobiography for the "Shropshire Weekly Herald."
Anonymous, of course, but strictly veracious, with the omission of
sundry little personal failings which are nothing to the point. I call
it "Through the Wilds of Literary London." An old friend of mine edits
the "Herald," and I'm indebted to him for the suggestion.'

His voice was a trifle husky, but he spoke like a man of education.

'Most people will take it for fiction. I wish I had inventive power
enough to write fiction anything like it. I have published novels, Mr
Reardon, but my experience in that branch of literature was peculiar--as
I may say it has been in most others to which I have applied myself. My
first stories were written for "The Young Lady's Favourite," and most
remarkable productions they were, I promise you. That was fifteen years
ago, in the days of my versatility. I could throw off my supplemental
novelette of fifteen thousand words without turning a hair, and
immediately after it fall to, fresh as a daisy, on the "Illustrated
History of the United States," which I was then doing for Edward
Coghlan. But presently I thought myself too good for the "Favourite"; in
an evil day I began to write three-volume novels, aiming at reputation.
It wouldn't do. I persevered for five years, and made about five
failures. Then I went back to Bowring. "Take me on again, old man, will