anship, but frankly owned that the book was repulsive to him.
To the public it would be worse than repulsive--tedious, utterly
uninteresting. No matter; it drew to its end.

The day of its completion was made memorable by an event decidedly more
exciting, even to the author.

At eight o'clock in the evening there remained half a page to be
written. Biffen had already worked about nine hours, and on breaking
off to appease his hunger he doubted whether to finish to-night or to
postpone the last lines till tomorrow. The discovery that only a small
crust of bread lay in the cupboard decided him to write no more; he
would have to go out to purchase a loaf and that was disturbance.

But stay; had he enough money? He searched his pockets. Two pence and
two farthings; no more.

You are probably not aware that at bakers' shops in the poor quarters
the price of the half-quartern loaf varies sometimes from week to week.
At present, as Biffen knew, it was twopence three-farthings, a
common figure. But Harold did not possess three farthings, only two.
Reflecting, he remembered to have passed yesterday a shop where the
bread was marked twopence halfpenny; it was a shop in a very obscure
little street off Hampstead Road, some distance from Clipstone Street.
Thither he must repair. He had only his hat and a muffler to put on, for
again he was wearing his overcoat in default of the under one, and his
ragged umbrella to take from the corner; so he went forth.

To his delight the twopence halfpenny announcement was still in the
baker's window. He obtained a loaf wrapped it in the piece of paper he
had brought--small bakers decline to supply paper for this purpose--and
strode joyously homeward again.

Having eaten, he looked longingly at his manuscript. But half a page
more. Should he not finish it to-night? The temptation was irresistible.
He sat down, wrought with unusual speed, and at half-past ten wrote with
magnificent flourish 'The End.'

His fire was out and he had neither coals nor wood. But his feet were
frozen into lifelessness. Impossible to go to bed like this; he must
take another turn in the streets. It would suit his humour to ramble a
while. Had it not been so late he would have gone to see Reardon, who
expected the communication of this glorious news.

So again he locked his door. Half-way downstairs he stumbled over
something or somebody in the dark.

'Who is that?' he cried.

The answer was a loud snore. Bif