earth the cashier would behave when they loosed him out for the Bank
Holiday. Then he set to and wrote hard at the Quarterly Catalogue. In
all London there was not a more prolific or versatile writer than
Savage Keith Rickman. But if in ninety-two you had asked him for his
masterpiece, his _magnum opus_, his life-work, he would mention
nothing that he had written, but refer you, soberly and benignly, to
that colossal performance, the Quarterly Catalogue.

"Vandam: Amours of Great Men (a little soiled). Rare. 30s." He was
in the middle of the Vs now and within measurable distance of the end.
Business being slack in the front shop, he finished earlier than
usual, and actually found himself with nearly a whole hour upon his
hands before dinner. He had half a mind to spend it at his club, the
Junior Journalists', in the side street over the way.

Only half a mind; for Mr. Rickman entertained the most innocent
beliefs with regard to that club of his. He was not yet sure whether
it belonged to him or he to it; but in going to the Junior
Journalists' he conceived himself to be going into society. So extreme
was his illusion.

Mr. Rickman's place was in the shop and his home was in a boarding
house, and for years he had thought of belonging to that club; but
quite hopelessly, as of a thing beyond attainment. It had never
occurred to him that anything could come of those invasions of the
friendly young men. Yet this was what had come of them. He was
friends, under the rose, that is to say, over the counter, with Horace
Jewdwine of Lazarus College, Oxford. Jewdwine had proposed him on his
own merits, somebody else had seconded him (he supposed) on
Jewdwine's, and between them they had smuggled him in. This would be