well against the rivalry of some and the bitterness of others. But like a lion at bay, with magnificent self-confidence, he squared himself to bear down all obstacles. The Government was undecided. A certain eminent lawyer, Sir Robert Parkleigh, had claims upon it which were undeniable. Having held office in a previous administration he had waived his right to promotion on the understanding that his reward should be great thereafter: he was a man of vigorous understanding, learned, urbane and of great family. The appointment would be very popular. But the Attorney-General was not a man to be trifled with, and a go-between was sent unofficially to learn his views.

“I suppose Parkleigh will get the Chancellorship,” said this person, in the course of an amiable conversation.

“You suppose nothing of the sort,” shouted Josiah Spratte. His face grew red with passion and his scowl deepened as the veins of his forehead stood out like knotted cords. He fixed on the man those piercing eyes which seemed to read into the soul, discovering shameful secrets. “You’ve been sent to find out what I thought about the Chancellorship? It’s what I suspected. Don’t deny it!”

Beads of sweat stood on the other’s brow as the Attorney-General towered over him, threatening and peremptory. He vowed he had received no such mission.

“Don’t deny it, I tell you,” cried Josiah Spratte. Then, furiously, he walked up and down the room. “Tell them,” he hissed at length, with undescribable venom, “Tell them that if Parkleigh is made Chancellor, I’ll kick the Government out. By God, they shan’t stay in a month!”

While the appointment was pending, a great lady, suffering under some brutal affront, sought to beard the lion.

“Do you know what people are saying about you, Mr. Attorney? They’re wondering who this sprat is that we are asked to swallow.”

Sir Josiah looked at her.

“Tell your friends, Madam, to be thankful the sprat is not a whale, because even if he were, by God they’d have to swallow him. And what’s more, they’d have to pretend they liked him!”

Shortly afterwards the Prime Minister wrote a very civil note to his subordinate offering him the much-coveted place. Josiah Spratte was raised to the Peerage. A second term of office was rewarded by new honour, and he became Earl Spratte of Beachcombe and Viscount Rallington.

But the great lawyer carried also into private life the tones with which he cowed juries and sent witnesses fainting from the box. He never spoke but to command and gave no order without a string of oaths. When he fell into a temper, which happened several times a day, he could be heard from top to bottom of the house. His wife, his servants, trembled before him; his children in his presence spoke in whispers, and he took pleasure in humiliating them with brutal raillery. He met his match but twice. The first time was at his club when he was playing whist. This was his favourite relaxation, and he was always to be found in the card-room about six o’clock waiting for a rubber. One day by chance a fourth could not be found, and the Chancellor himself went into the smoking-room to look for a player. It was a sunny afternoon in July, and the place was deserted, except for a young guardsman who sat comfortably sleeping in an arm-chair. Without hesitation Lord Spratte shook him violently till he was wide awake, and asked if he knew the game. He answered that he played very badly and would much sooner resume his nap; but Lord Spratte declined to hear excuses, and dragged him by sheer force into the card-room. The soldier had only spoken the truth when he described himself as a bad player, and since he was the Chancellor’s partner, things did not go very smoothly. The elder man took no trouble to hide his annoyance when the other made a mistake, and expressed his opinion of the subaltern’s intelligence with more bluntness than civility.

“Oh, confound you, shut up!” cried the guardsman at last. “How d’you expect a fellow to play if you go on ragging him like a fish-wife?”

“I don’t think you know who I am, sir,” answered the Chancellor, with frowning brows.

“Oh yes, I do! You’re the Lord Chancellor, aren’t you? But you might mind your manners for all that. You’re not in your dirty police-court now.”

For the rest of that rubber the distinguished lawyer never opened his mouth.

But next time he was worsted in debate the results were more serious. Lord Spratte, still restless after the attainment of his ambition, was seized with the desire to found a great family; and on this account wished his eldest son, who had assumed the title of Viscount Rallington, to marry a certain heiress of important connections. The lady was not unwilling, but Rallington stubbornly refused. At first, white with rage, Lord Spratte asked how he dared to cross him; and he showered upon his son that abundant vituperation of which he was the finest master in England. But without effect. The Chancellor was so astounded at this display of spirit that for once in his life he condescended to argue. His son stood firm. Then the old man burst out again with violent temper.

“And who the devil are you?” he cried. “Haven’t I raised you from the gutter? What would you be without me? By God, you shall do whatever I tell you.”

Rallington lost all patience. He put off the timidity with which for years he had endured so much and went up to his father.

“Look here, don’t talk to me like that. I’ll marry a barmaid if I choose, and be damned to you!”

The Chancellor’s hair stood on end with wrath, and he gasped for breath. His passion was such that for a minute he could not speak. Then his son, driven at length to open rebellion, poured out the hatred which had so long accumulated. He reminded him of the tyranny with which he had used his whole family, and the terror in which he had held them. He had robbed them of all freedom, so that they were slaves to his every whim. To his angry violence and to his selfishness all their happiness had been sacrificed.

“You’ve been a bullying ruffian all your life, and no one has had the pluck to stand up to you. I’m sick of it, and I won’t stand it any more. D’you hear?”

At last the Chancellor found words, and beset his son with a torrent of blasphemy, and with foul-mouthed abuse.

“Be quiet!” said the other, standing up to him. “How dare you speak to me like that! It’s no good trying to bully me now.”

“By God, I’ll knock you down.”

Rallington thrust his face close to his father’s, and for a moment fear seized the old man. Here at length was some one whom he could not cow, and he hated his son.

“You’d better not touch me. You can’t thrash me now as you could when I was a boy. I recommend you to take great care.”

Lord Spratte raised his hands, but a trembling came suddenly upon him, so that he could not move.

“Get out of my house,” he screamed. “Get out of my house.”

“I’m only too glad to go.”

The arteries beat in the old man’s head so that he thought some horrible thing would happen to him. He poured out brandy and drank it, but it tasted like water. He sat for hours with clenched fists and scowling brow; and at last with a savage laugh he took his will and with his own hand wrote a codicil in which he deprived his eldest son of every penny he could. This relieved him and he breathed more freely. Presently he called his family together and told them without a word of explanation that Rallington was his son no longer.

“If any of you mention his name, or if I hear that you have had any communication with him, you shall go as he went.”

The pair never met again, for Rallington went abroad and died, unmarried, one month before his father. Thomas, the next son, who had been known all his life as Tommy