glorious office, and a clock outside lighted up.
"Oh, news," said he, "and dull articles, and things about Celebrities. If you know any Celebrities, now?"
Noël asked him what Celebrities were.
"Oh, the Queen and the Princes, and people with titles, and people who write, or sing, or act—or do something clever or wicked."
"I don't know anybody wicked," said Oswald, wishing he had known Dick Turpin, or Claude Duval, so as to be able to tell the Editor things about them. "But I know some one with a title—Lord Tottenham."
"The mad old Protectionist, eh? How did you come to know him?"
"We don't know him to speak to. But he goes over the Heath every day at three, and he strides along like a giant—with a black cloak like Lord Tennyson's flying behind him, and he talks to himself like one o'clock."
"What does he say?" The Editor had sat down again, and he was fiddling with a blue pencil.
"We only heard him once, close enough to understand, and then he said, 'The curse of the country, sir—ruin and desolation!' And then he went striding along again, hitting at
