ed suddenly blocked; he could
think of nothing ahead except that one possible meeting.

So preoccupied was he, that his own advertisement for work was forgotten
the day after it appeared; and when two days later he found a letter
pushed under the door, his heart leaped to his mouth with the conviction
that it could refer to nothing but the one object before him. It did
not; it was a reply to his advertisement.

"J-- is requested to call to-morrow, at 10 a.m., on Mr Trotter, 6,
Porson Square, in reference to his advertisement for literary work."

With some trepidation, and no particular expectations, Jeffreys
presented himself at the appointed time, and found himself face to face
with a testy little gentleman, with by no means large pretensions to
literary authority.

He took in the shabby-looking advertiser at a glance, and suited his
tone accordingly.

"So you're the chap, are you? You're the nice educated literary chap
that wants a job, eh?"

"I am."

"What can you do? Write poetry?"

"I never tried."

"Write 'istory, or 'igh hart, and that sort of thing?"

"I have not tried. I know mostly about bibliography."

"Bibli--who? You'll turn your 'and to anything for a crust, I suppose.
Do you ever do anything in the puff line?"

Jeffreys admitted he had not.

"'Cos I want a chap to crack up my `Polyglot Pickle' in proper literary
style. None of your commonplace maunderings, but something smart and
startling. What do you say? Can you do it or not?"

Jeffreys heart sank low. "I'll try--"

"Can you do it?" demanded the proud inventor.

"Yes," said Jeffreys desperately.

"All right," said Mr Trotter, greatly relieved. "I want a book of
twenty pages. Write anything you like, only bring the pickles in on
each page. You know the style. Twenty blood-curdling ballads, or
Aesop's fables, or something the public's bound to read. Something
racy, mind, and all ending in the pickle. It's a good thing, so you
needn't be afraid of overdoing it. You shall have a bob a page, money
down, or twenty-five bob for the lot if you let me have it this time to-
morrow. Remember, nothing meek and mild. Lay it on thick. They're the
best thing going, and got a good name. Polyglot, that's many tongues;
everybody tastes 'em."

Jeffreys, with a dismal sense of the humour of the situation, accepted
his noble task meekly, and sat down in Mr Trotter's back room with a
bottle of the pickles on the table before him.