It was Bill's burning ambition to obtain a post upon a paper. Not
until later did he learn that it is the men outside the papers who
must have a turn for stringing sentences; that those inside are
machines, cutting and serving the material with no greater interest in
it than has the cheesemonger in the cheese he weighs and deals.
Meanwhile, the glimpse we may take of him shows Bill Wyvern urging
along his pen until clean paper became magic manuscripts; living upon
a billow of hope when the envelopes were sped, submerged beneath
oceans of gloom when they were returned; trembling into Fleet Street
deliciously to inhale the thick smell of printer's ink that came
roaring up from a hundred basements; with goggle eyes venerating the
men who with assured steps passed in and out the swing-doors of
castles he burned to storm; snatching brief moments for the boisterous
society of Korah, Dathan, and Abiram, those rare bull-terriers; and
finally, expending with his Margaret moments more protracted--stealthy
meetings, for the most part--in Mr. Marrapit's shrubbery.



III.

But two more peeps from our bridge need we take, and then our
characters will be ready to meet us upon the further side.

A glance from here will reveal to us Mrs. Major, that masterly woman,
inscribing in her diary:

"_Getting on with Mr. M. Should sue. Precip. fat._"