THE COMPLETE WORKS OF RUDYARD KIPLING (Illustrated Edition). Rudyard 1865-1936 Kipling

where nobody seemed to go to bed at all. When his clothes arrived he sought the Central Southern Syndicate for Torpenhow's address, and got it, with the intimation that there was still some money waiting for him.

      "How much?" said Dick, as one who habitually dealt in millions.

      "Between thirty and forty pounds. If it would be any convenience to you, of course we could let you have it at once; but we usually settle accounts monthly."

      "If I show that I want anything now, I'm lost," he said to himself. "All I need I'll take later on." Then, aloud, "It's hardly worth while; and I'm going to the country for a month, too. Wait till I come back, and I'll see about it."

      "But we trust, Mr. Heldar, that you do not intend to sever your

       connection with us?"

       Dick's business in life was the study of faces, and he watched the speaker

       keenly. "That man means something," he said. "I'll do no business till

       I've seen Torpenhow. There's a big deal coming." So he departed, making

       no promises, to his one little room by the Docks. And that day was

       the seventh of the month, and that month, he reckoned with awful

       distinctness, had thirty-one days in it! It is not easy for a man of

       catholic tastes and healthy appetites to exist for twenty-four days on

       fifty shillings. Nor is it cheering to begin the experiment alone in

       all the loneliness of London. Dick paid seven shillings a week for his

       lodging, which left him rather less than a shilling a day for food and

       drink. Naturally, his first purchase was of the materials of his craft;

       he had been without them too long. Half a day's investigations and

       comparison brought him to the conclusion that sausages and mashed

       potatoes, twopence a plate, were the best food. Now, sausages once or

       twice a week for breakfast are not unpleasant. As lunch, even, with

       mashed potatoes, they become monotonous. At dinner they are impertinent.

       At the end of three days Dick loathed sausages, and, going, forth,

       pawned his watch to revel on sheep's head, which is not as cheap as it

       looks, owing to the bones and the gravy. Then he returned to sausages

       and mashed potatoes. Then he confined himself entirely to mashed

       potatoes for a day, and was unhappy because of pain in his inside. Then

       he pawned his waistcoat and his tie, and thought regretfully of money

       thrown away in times past. There are few things more edifying unto

       Art than the actual belly-pinch of hunger, and Dick in his few walks

       abroad,—he did not care for exercise; it raised desires that could not

       be satisfied—found himself dividing mankind into two classes,—those

       who looked as if they might give him something to eat, and those who

       looked otherwise. "I never knew what I had to learn about the human

       face before," he thought; and, as a reward for his humility, Providence

       caused a cab-driver at a sausage-shop where Dick fed that night to leave

       half eaten a great chunk of bread. Dick took it,—would have fought all

       the world for its possession,—and it cheered him.

      The month dragged through at last, and, nearly prancing with impatience, he went to draw his money. Then he hastened to Torpenhow's address and smelt the smell of cooking meats all along the corridors of the chambers. Torpenhow was on the top floor, and Dick burst into his room, to be received with a hug which nearly cracked his ribs, as Torpenhow dragged him to the light and spoke of twenty different things in the same breath.

      "But you're looking tucked up," he concluded.

      "Got anything to eat?" said Dick, his eye roaming round the room.

      "I shall be having breakfast in a minute. What do you say to sausages?"

      "No, anything but sausages! Torp, I've been starving on that accursed horse-flesh for thirty days and thirty nights."

      "Now, what lunacy has been your latest?"

      Dick spoke of the last few weeks with unbridled speech. Then he opened his coat; there was no waistcoat below. "I ran it fine, awfully fine, but I've just scraped through."

      "You haven't much sense, but you've got a backbone, anyhow. Eat, and talk afterwards." Dick fell upon eggs and bacon and gorged till he could gorge no more. Torpenhow handed him a filled pipe, and he smoked as men smoke who for three weeks have been deprived of good tobacco.

      "Ouf!" said he. "That's heavenly! Well?"

      "Why in the world didn't you come to me?"

      "Couldn't; I owe you too much already, old man. Besides I had a sort of superstition that this temporary starvation—that's what it was, and it hurt—would bring me luck later. It's over and done with now, and none of the syndicate know how hard up I was. Fire away. What's the exact state of affairs as regards myself?"

      "You had my wire? You've caught on here. People like your work immensely. I don't know why, but they do. They say you have a fresh touch and a new way of drawing things. And, because they're chiefly home-bred English, they say you have insight. You're wanted by half a dozen papers; you're wanted to illustrate books."

      Dick grunted scornfully.

      "You're wanted to work up your smaller sketches and sell them to the dealers. They seem to think the money sunk in you is a good investment. Good Lord! who can account for the fathomless folly of the public?"

      "They're a remarkably sensible people."

      "They are subject to fits, if that's what you mean; and you happen to be the object of the latest fit among those who are interested in what they call Art. Just now you're a fashion, a phenomenon, or whatever you please. I appeared to be the only person who knew anything about you here, and I have been showing the most useful men a few of the sketches you gave me from time to time. Those coming after your work on the Central Southern Syndicate appear to have done your business. You're in luck."

      "Huh! call it luck! Do call it luck, when a man has been kicking about the world like a dog, waiting for it to come! I'll luck 'em later on. I want a place to work first."

      "Come here," said Torpenhow, crossing the landing. "This place is a big box room really, but it will do for you. There's your skylight, or your north light, or whatever window you call it, and plenty of room to thrash about in, and a bedroom beyond. What more do you need?"

      "Good enough," said Dick, looking round the large room that took up a third of a top story in the rickety chambers overlooking the Thames. A pale yellow sun shone through the skylight and showed the much dirt of the place. Three steps led from the door to the landing, and three more to Torpenhow's room. The well of the staircase disappeared into darkness, pricked by tiny gas-jets, and there were sounds of men talking and doors slamming seven flights below, in the warm gloom.

      "Do they give you a free hand here?" said Dick, cautiously. He was Ishmael enough to know the value of liberty.

      "Anything you like; latch-keys and license unlimited. We are permanent tenants for the most part here. 'Tisn't a place I would recommend for a Young Men's Christian Association, but it will serve. I took these rooms for you when I wired."

      "You're a great deal too kind, old man."

      "You didn't suppose you were going away from me, did you?" Torpenhow put his hand on Dick's shoulder, and the two walked up and down the room, henceforward to be called the studio, in sweet and silent communion. They