and the writer of some of those spirit-
stirring letters in the weekly press signed
"Lucius Junius Brutus" and "Scrutator,"
sat in the right-hand corner box nearest
the door, where he was out of the draught,
and had the readiest chance of pouncing
upon the boy who brought in the evening
papers, and securing them before his rival,
Mr. Wickwar, could effect a seizure. Mr.
Wickwar, who was a retired tailor, and had
plenty of means, the sole bane of his life
being the danger to the constitution from
the recklessly advanced feeling of the
times, sat at the other end of the room,
being gouty and immobile, contenting himself
with glaring at his democratic enemy,
and occasionally withering him with choice
extracts from the Magna Charta weekly
journal. The box between them was
usually devoted of an evening to Messrs.
O'Shane and Begson, gentlemen attached
to the press, capital company, full of anecdote
and repartee, though liable to be
suddenly called away in the exigence of
their literary pursuits. The top of the
policeman's helmet or the flat cap of the
fireman on duty just protruded through
the swing-door in their direction, acted as
tocsins to these indefatigable public servants,
cut them off in the midst of a story,
and sent them flying on the back of an
engine, or at the tail of a crowd, to witness
scenes which, pourtrayed by their graphic
pencils, afforded an additional relish to the
morning muffin at thousands of respectable
breakfast-tables. Between these gentlemen
and a Mr. Shimmer, a youngish man,
with bright eyes, hectic colour, and a
general sense of nervous irritation, there
was a certain spirit of camaraderie which
the other frequenters of Bliffkins's could
not understand. Mr. Shimmer always
sat alone, and during his meal invariably
buried himself in one of the choice
volumes of Bliffkins's library, consisting of
old volumes of Blackwood's, Bentley's,
and Tait's magazines, from which he
would occasionally make extracts in a
very small hand in a very small notebook.
It was probably from the fact of a
printer's boy having called at Bliffkins's
with what was understood to be a "proof,"
that a rumour arose and was received
throughout the Bliffkins connexion that
Mr. Shimmer edited the Times
newspaper. Be that as it might, there was
no doubt, both from external circumstances
and from the undefined deference
paid to him by the other gentlemen
of the press, that Mr. Shimmer
was a literary man of position, and that
Bliffkins held him in respect, and, what
was more practical for him, gave him
credit on that account. An ex-parish clerk,
who took snuff and sleep in alternate
pinches; a potato salesman in Covent
Garden, who drank coffee to keep himself
awake, and who went briskly off to business
when the other customers dropped
off wearily to bed; a marker at an adjoining
bowling-alley, who would have been a
pleasant fellow had it not been for his
biceps, which got into his head and into his
mouth, and pervaded his conversation;
and a seedsman, a terrific republican, who
named his innocent bulbs and hyacinths
after the most sanguinary heroes of the
French revolution, filled up the list of
Bliffkins's "regulars."

Among these quiet people Walter Joyce
took up his place night after night, until
he began to be looked upon as of and
belonging to them. They were intolerant of
strangers at Bliffkins's, of strangers that is
to say, who, tempted by the comforts of the
place, renewed their visits, and threatened
to make them habitual. These were for
the most part received at about their third
appearance, when they came in with a
pleasant smile and thought they had made
an impression, with a strong stare and a
dead silence, under the influences of which
they ordered refreshment which they did
not want, had to pay for, and went away
without eating, amid the contemptuous
grins of the regulars. But Walter Joyce
was so quiet and unobtrusive, so evidently
a gentleman, desirous of peace and shelter
and refuge at a cheap rate, that the great
heart of Bliffkins' softened to him at once;
they themselves had known the feelings
under which he sought the asylum of that
Long-acre Patmos, and they respected him.
No one spoke to him, there was no
acknowledgment of his presence among them;
they knew well enough that any such
manifestation would have been out of place;
but when, after finishing his very simple
evening meal, he would take a few sheets
of paper from his pocket, draw to him the
Times' supplement, and, constantly referring
to it, commence writing a series of
letters, they knew what all that portended,
and all of them, including old Wickwar, the
ex-tailor and great conservative, silently
wished him godspeed.

Ah, those letters, dated from Bliffkins's
coffee-house, and written in Walter Joyce's
roundest hand, in reply to the hundred of
chances which each day's newspaper sheet