spring season" (for the reach-me-down no defense is offered)—the young man in the old bowler hat stepped back on to the pavement with as much agility as an old footballer's knee would permit, and cursed the occupant of the taxi by all his gods for a bloated plutocrat, and in the unworthy spirit of revenge vowed to make him the hero of his very next novel.
A cruel revenge, but not, we think, unjustified. Idle rich young fellow—toiled not, neither did he spin—nursing a gold hunting repeater in a coat with an astrachan collar and one of Messrs. Scott's latest—with a red face and a suspicion of fur upon the upper lip—taking five kids who had lost their mother to the pantomime without his lunch—how dare he run down a true pillar of democracy at the rate of thirty-five miles an hour!
At nine minutes past one by the gold hunting repeater, in the middle of Victoria Street, the hard thought occurred to the young man that he would get no lunch. Still, let us not overdo our regard for his heroism. He had not finished his breakfast until something after eleven, and his breakfast had consisted of three devilled kidneys on toast, a plate of porridge, a grilled sole, muffins, marmalade and fruit ad libitum, but still the young chap was undoubtedly going to miss his luncheon.
At twelve minutes past one by the gold hunting repeater, the heir to the barony was acclaimed in triumph
