s I tell you I was
'kicked off' out of journalism--my fault being that I published a
leaderette exposing a mean 'deal' on the part of a certain city
plutocrat. I didn't know the rascal had shares in the paper. But he
_had_--under an 'alias.' And he made the devil's own row about it with
the editor, who nearly died of it, being inclined to apoplexy--and
between the two of them I was 'dropped.' Then the word ran along the
press wires that I was an 'unsafe' man. I could not get any post worth
having--I had saved just twenty pounds--so I took it all and walked away
from London--literally _walked_ away! I haven't spent a penny in other
locomotion than my own legs since I left Fleet Street."

Helmsley listened with eager interest. Here was a man who had done the
very thing which he himself had started to do;--"tramped" the road.
But--with what a difference! Full manhood, physical strength, and
activity on the one side,--decaying power, feebleness of limb and
weariness on the other. They had entered the village street by this
time, and were slowly walking up it together.

"You see,"--went on Reay,--"of course I could have taken the train--but
twenty pounds is only twenty pounds--and it must last me twelve solid
months. By that time I shall have finished my work."

"And what's that?" asked Helmsley.

"It's a book. A novel. And"--here he set his teeth hard--"I intend that
it shall make me--famous!"

"The intention is good,"--said Helmsley, slowly--"But--there are so many
novels!"

"No, there are not!" declared Reay, decisively--"There are plenty of
rag-books _called_ novels--but they are not real 'novels.' There's
nothing 'new' in them. There's no touch of real, suffering, palpitating
humanity in them! The humanity of to-day is infinitely more complex than
it was in the days of Scott or Dickens, but there's no Scott or Dickens
to epitomise its character or delineate its temperament. I want to be
the twentieth century Scott and Dickens rolled into one stupendous
literary Titan!"

His mellow laughter was hearty and robust. Helmsley caught its infection
and laughed too.

"But why,"--he asked--"do you want to write a novel? Why not write a
real _book_?"

"What do you call a real book, old David?" demanded Reay, looking down
upon him with a sudden piercing glance.

Helmsley was for a moment confused. He was thinking of such books as
Carlyle's "Past and Present"--Emerson's "Essays" and the works of
Ruskin. But he remembe