"I'd like to awfully, I need not tell you, Geoff, but I've got to be back at 1.15 sharp—it's mail day."

"Oh, hang mail day! Come along and lunch—and let us have a good old bukh!"

"I don't know what that means—but I'll be glad of lunch, and more glad of a bit of a jaw!"

"Now, tell me all about yourself, Douglas," said his schoolfellow, as they sat vis-à-vis in the marble hall. "You don't look particularly chirpy. Still in the office?"

"Yes—I expect to live and die there."

"Poor old boy—and doing work you hate!"

"Oh, I'm getting used to it now. I shall manage to hang on."

"And Mrs. Shafto—how is she?"

"As usual—going strong. We live in the same boarding-house."

"'Umph! Well, let me tell you this—you are in the black books at home. I hear you refuse all invitations and make monstrous excuses."

"You know I'd love to go down to 'Tremenheere,' but how can I? My time is not my own, and I only got a week's holiday in August and three days at Christmas. There's nothing to tell about my career—let's hear yours?"

Thus invited, Geoffrey, a gay young officer in a crack regiment, broke into short and vivid descriptions of Indian quarters, polo matches, and capital black-buck shooting in the Central Provinces, and gave a full and detailed history of his one tiger.

Shafto, an eager and enthusiastic listener, exclaimed:

"I say, how splendid! Do you know, Geoff, I'd give ten years of this life to have a good chance of seeing the world—especially the East?"

"Who knows—you might yet!"

"Pigs might fly! Still I must not grumble. I'm delighted you have had such a glorious time; when one's friends are enjoying themselves, it's next best to doing the same oneself. What leave have you got?"

"Only three months and every hour is priceless. This time to-morrow I shall be blazing away at a grouse drive."

From grouse they fell to talking of shooting, of old scenes, of rabbiting and ferreting, of cricket matches, schoolfellows and scrapes.

Suddenly Douglas sprang to his feet and pointed to the clock.

"Half-past one, I must run! Good-bye and good luck, old boy," wringing his friend's hand, "I shan't forget this lunch in a hurry," and he was gone. This little break and talk of old times and warm friends gave Shafto something pleasant to think of for many days; it was like a gleam of sunshine in his grey and joyless life.

Richard Hutton, hack writer and "ghost," sat next to him at table twice a day, and proved a sympathetic neighbour. Hutton was a clever, cultured, and—when he pleased—a wholly delightful companion. Occasionally on Sundays the pair made little excursions together, visited the City churches and quaint bits of Old London, or ventured a dash into the country, or up the river.

"You say Friday is a holiday in your office, Shafto," he remarked one evening; "how would you like to come for a prowl, and see what we can find in the Caledonian Market? It's an out-of-the-way place, where once a week all manner of rubbish is shot, and now and then you pick up a really staggering bargain."

"What's that?" inquired Shafto.

"Well, I'm told that lately a woman bought a rusty steel fender for two shillings and, when she went to clean it, it turned out to be solid silver—a bit of loot from some old French chateau. I must confess that I've never found any spoil, but I only root among the books. Once, I thought I'd got hold of a Coverdale Bible, but it proved to be a fake."

"All right," agreed Shafto, "I'd like to try my luck; I'll go with you and look for a set of gold fire-irons. I've nothing special on—only tennis in the afternoon."

"And the market is at its best in the morning—we'll start at ten."

Friday morning found the couple roaming aimlessly round that great bare enclosure at the end of the Camden Road, known as the Caledonian Market. It was just eleven by the clock tower, and wares were still pouring in; arriving in all manner of shabby carts and vans—mostly drawn by aged and decrepit horses. Every variety of goods had its own particular pitch. In one quarter were piles of books, brown, musty volumes of all shapes and sizes, also tattered magazines, and of theological works a great host. Farther on the explorers came to a vast collection of old iron. It was as if numbers of travelling tinkers had here discharged their stock; fenders, gasoliers, stair-rods, tin-cans, officers' swords—yes, at least a dozen—frying pans and saucepans. Old clothes were needless to say, a prominent feature. Here you might suit yourself with a bald-looking sealskin, a red flannel petticoat, a soiled evening gown on graceful lines, or a widow's bonnet. Here also were black costumes (dripping beads), broken feathers, and hopeless hats. Old furniture had several stands and was an important department. Grandfather clocks, sideboards, chairs (Chippendale or otherwise), chairs in horsehair or upholstered in wool-work, and framed family portraits solicited notice. Should anyone marvel as to what becomes of the rubbish and relics belonging to houses whose contents have been scattered, after several generations—trifles that survived wrecked fortunes, odds and ends which, for sacred reasons, people had clung to till the last, let them repair to the "Market"—the relics are there, lying on unresponsive cobble stones, a pitiful spectacle, handled, despised, and cast aside—the precious hoarded treasures of a bygone age.

Delicately worked samplers, faded water-colours, portraits, old seals, snuff-boxes, and lockets, attract the curio-hunter. Here is a Prayer Book with massive silver clasps, inscribed, "Dearest Mary, on our wedding day, June 4th, 1847, from Gilbert." There, in a red morocco case, is a miniature of a handsome naval officer. At the back, under glass, are two locks of hair, joined by a true lover's knot in seed pearls. Some ruthless hand will pick out those pearls and throw the hair away.

For a considerable time Shafto strolled about with his hands in his pockets, so far seeing nothing to tempt him. Meanwhile his companion eagerly examined books and bargained over a tattered old volume. Shafto noted with surprise the number of well-dressed visitors poking among the stalls, in search of treasure trove. There were a parson with a greedy-looking leather bag, an officer in uniform, and various smart ladies, hunting in couples. Among a quantity of jugs and basins, soup tureens and coarse crockery, Shafto's idle glance fell upon a frightful Chinese figure, the squat presentation of a man, about eight inches in height.

"I say, did you ever see such a horror?" he asked, pointing it out to his companion; "a curio for ugliness, and just the sort of monster Mrs. Malone would love. I'll try if I can get hold of it. What's the price of the China demon?" he inquired of a wizened old woman, who wore a bashed black bonnet and a pair of blue sand shoes.

"Five shillin'," she replied promptly.

"Five shillings!" he exclaimed. "You're joking."

"No time for jokes here," she retorted, "it's a good piece" (picking up the figure), "and come out of a grand house. If it were in Bond Street, they'd ask you five pounds. I showed it to a man, who said it was good, although there was no mark, and it might be worth a lot; but I've no time to be raking up things—my trade is a quick sale—and cash."

"I'll give you half a crown," said the customer.

"Two half-crowns, and it's yours, and a bargain; you won't