was only just enough to keep my mother and sisters in genteel poverty.
"What the devil am I fit for?" I asked my friend Aitkin one day. "I might become a billiard-marker, or a racing tout; but I'm not fit for much else. I really am a most useless beggar."
"Poor old chap," said he, "you're badly hipped, and well you may be, but don't chuck up the sponge. Put an advertisement in the Telegraph. Sit down, man, and write it straight away. I'll see to it for you."
Poor old Tom! he was a good chap—peace to his ashes—he was shot in a drinking-bar in California.
Well, I wrote as he suggested:
"Young Gentleman; Oxford degree; some knowledge of medicine; accustomed to good society; musical, speaks French well, desires post as secretary or travelling companion—D'Escombe, Telegraph Office, Fleet Street."
"That's all right," laughed Tom, "but you don't mention your real accomplishments, I notice. You should add, 'Has taken prizes for consumption of beer; an excellent pool-player; irresistible manner with ladies, and wide experience in card playing.'"
"Don't be a fool, Tom," I growled. "Take
