him up in epigram for some time, and he set me
up in the necessaries of life for some time, and
so we parted mutually satisfied.

The commercial dealings thus satisfactorily
established were renewed steadily and at
frequent intervals. Of course, as in all earthly
relations, there were not wanting some
unpleasant elements to qualify the generally
comfortable arrangements. Mr. Scrooper would
sometimes complain that some of the
witticisms with which I had supplied him, had
failed in creating an effect—had hardly proved
remunerative, in short. What could I reply?
I could not tell him that this was his fault.
I told him a story given by Isaac Walton, of a
clergyman who, hearing a sermon preached by
one of his cloth with immense effect, asked for
the loan of it. On returning the sermon,
however, after having tried it on his own
congregation, he complained that it had proved a
total failure, and that his audience had
responded in no degree to his eloquence. The
answer of the original proprietor of the sermon
was crushing: "I lent you," he said, "indeed,
my fiddle, but not my fiddle-stick;" meaning,
as Isaac explains, rather unnecessarily, "the
manner and intelligence with which the sermon
was to be delivered."

My friend did not seem to feel the application
of this anecdote. I believe he was occupied,
while I spoke, in committing the story to his
memory for future use—thus getting it gratuitously
out of me—which was mean.

In fact, Mr. Scrooper, besides his original
irreparable deficiency, was getting old and
stupid, and would often forget or misapply the
point of a story, or the answer to a conundrum.
With these last I supplied him freely,
working really hard to prepare for his use such
articles as were adapted to his peculiar exigencies.
As a diner-out, riddles of a convivial
sort—alluding to matters connected with the
pleasures of the table—are generally in request,
and with a supply of these I fitted Mr. Scrooper,
much to his satisfaction. Here are some specimens,
for which I charged him rather heavily:

Why is wine—observe how easily this is
brought in after dinner—why is wine, made up
for the British market, like a deserter from the
army?

Because it's always brandied (branded) before
it's sent off.

Why is a ship, which has to encounter rough
weather before it reaches its destination, like a
certain wine which is usually adulterated with
logwood and other similar matters?

Because it goes through a vast deal before it
comes into port.

What portion of the trimming of a lady's
dress resembles East India sherry of the first
quality?

That which goes round the Cape.

One of his greatest difficulties, my patron told
me—for he was as frank with me as a man is with
his doctor or his lawyer—was in remembering
which were the houses where he had related a
certain story, or propounded a certain conundrum;
who were the people to whom such and
such a riddle would be fresh; who were the
people to whom it was already but too familiar.
Mr. Scrooper had also a habit of sometimes
asking the answer to a riddle instead of the
question, which was occasionally productive of
confusion; or, giving the question properly, he
would, when his audience became desperate and
gave it up, supply them with the answer to an
altogether different conundrum.

One day, my patron came to me in a state
of high indignation. A riddle—bran(d) new, and for
which I had demanded a high price, thinking
well of it myself—had failed, and Mr. Scrooper
came to me in a rage to expostulate.

"It fell as flat as ditch-water," he said.
"Indeed, one very disagreeable person said there was
nothing in it, and he thought there must be
some mistake. A very nasty thing to say,
considering that the riddle was given as my own.
How could I be mistaken in my own riddle?"

"May I ask," said I, politely, "how you
worded the question?"

"Certainly. I worded it thus: Why are
we justified in believing that the pilgrims to
Mecca, undertake the journey with mercenary
motives?"

"Quite right," said I; "and the answer?"

"The answer," replied my patron, "was as
you gave it me: Because they go for the sake
of Mahomet."

"I am not surprised," I said, coldly, for I felt
that I had been unjustly blamed, "that your
audience was mystified. The answer, as I gave
it to you, ran thus: Because they go for the
sake of the profit (Prophet)!"

Mr. Scrooper subsequently apologised.

I draw near to the end of my narrative. The
termination is painful, so is that of King Lear.
The worst feature in it is, that it involves the
acknowledgment of a certain deplorable piece
of weakness on my own part.

I was really in the receipt of a very pretty
little income from Mr. Scrooper, when one
morning I was again surprised by a visit from
a total stranger—again, as on a former occasion,
a middle-aged gentleman—again an individual
with a twinkling eye and a humorous mouth
—again a diner-out, with two surnames—Mr.
Kerby Postlethwaite I will call him, which is
sailing as near the wind as I consider safe.

Mr. Kerby Postlethwaite came on the errand
which had already brought Mr. Scrooper to the
top of my stairs. He, too, had seen one of my
productions in a certain journal (for I still kept
up my relation with the public press), and he
too having a similar reputation to maintain, and
finding his brain at times rather sterile, had
come to me to make exactly the same
proposal which had already been made by Mr.
Price Scrooper.

For a time the singularity of the coincidence
absolutely took my breath away, and I remained
staring speechlessly at my visitor in a manner
which might have suggested to him that I was
hardly the man to furnish him with anything
very brilliant. However, I managed to recover