Of course HIGLINSON should have changed his name, and should have
married. But the idiotic notions about pluck prevented him from
changing his name; and he would not marry a woman who accepted him
from only mercenary motives. He was so unattractive that he did
not think it possible a woman would marry him for any other reason.
However, he could not always be superintending the manufacture of
Blacking-cream; and it was obvious to him that he could publish no
more verses. So he devoted himself to philanthropy in a quiet and
unostentatious way. He attempted the reclamation of street-arabs.
He worked among them. He spent vast sums on providing education,
training, and decent pleasures for them. A man who wrote for _The
Scalpel_ found him out at last. Next day there was a pretty little
paragraph in _The Scalpel_, showing Mr. HIGLINSON up, and suggesting
that this was a clever attempt to get the London shoe-blacks to use
HIGLINSON's Blacking-cream. The Blacking-cream, by the way, had never
been advertised in _The Scalpel_.

HIGLINSON was furious. He spent a little money in finding out who had
written the paragraph. Then he walked up to the writer in a public
street, with raised walking-stick. "Now, Sir," he said, "you shall
have the thrashing that you deserve."

[Illustration]

But it happened that the writer was physically superior to HIGLINSON;
so it was the writer who did the thrashing, and HIGLINSON who took it.
Next day, _The Scalpel_ amused itself with HIGLINSON to the extent of
half a column. The notice was headed:--

"MR. HIGLINSON ADVERTISES HIMSELF AGAIN."