paid again. I accepted the money without demur as the matter was well worth it. A few other remarks on the subject of payment may, perhaps, be allowed here, although they concern the managerial more than the editorial department. There are two points of interest to contributors-the rate of remuneration, and the punctuality with which the account is discharged. All periodicals have, I believe, a regular tariff for ordinary work, but few confine themselves to it. Special scales of varying elasticity are common. The great Bodger of the Paulo-post Future Review, who generally has a few ladies of title and ex-ministers on tap as mere ordinaire, is said to have remarked, with unctuous emphasis, to an eminent statesman, that there were some contributors to whom he would be glad to pay anything; and was not Mr. Gladstone lately offered thousands for an article on the Venezuelan question? It is obviously impossible to generalize about these fancy terms which are set tled by special arrangement. Ordinary original contributions are paid by measure so much the column, page, or inch at a fixed rate; but this admits of a good deal of elasticity, at any rate in the case of newspapers, and the writer's rough reckoning of what he ought to receive is often falsified. Sometimes one gets more and sometimes less than one expects. I have never been able to make out what principle determines the result. The variations indulged in by every newspaper with which I am acquainted are quite incomprehensible. Sometimes a column and a third or more is reckoned as no more worth than a column; at others the full value of every line is given. This adds a sporting element of uncertainty to the periodical cheque. The magazines and reviews, which pay by the page, are much more regular, and their remuneration can be reckoned with great nicety by the number of words. As to the tariffs, the Times comes easily first, then the quarterlies, then the other leading daily and weekly newspapers and the best monthlies, all pretty much about the same. But of the newspa

pers, some are more remunerative than others with the same tariff, simply because they have more space at their disposal. When you have a subject in hand and plenty to say it is positively easier to write two thousand words, for instance, than to condense your remarks into one thousand or fifteen hundred, and therefore the short-winded papers are at a double disadvantage. Work done for them may give more trouble and bring in less return. The Times has a pre-eminent advantage over all other papers in this respect, as the quarterlies have, though in a less degree, over other reviews. The best market inevitably attracts the best work; a man takes his goods where they will fetch the highest price. But punctuality in payment is also a consideration of great importance. Contributors are rarely millionaires, and many a one prefers two guineas in the hand to two pound ten in the ledger. Managers do not seem to grasp this fact. Most of them settle accounts periodically-generally every month, less often at shorter or longer intervals; but, according to my experience, very few are quite faithful to the supposed date. Some are hopelessly irregular, and even require to be dunned before they will pay. This is infamy. I have had to dun a paper whose proprietor is a millionaire to the nth power. Perhaps it was not his fault, but the hideous fact remains. Periodicals which do not pay at all are beyond the pale of discussion. My experience of "bilking" is confined to a solitary instance; the culprit was a professional journal as well known as Punch all over the world.

Editors are not always so careful as they might be to preserve the secret of a contributor's identity in anonymous journalism. It ought to be-and with papers that know their business it is an inviolable rule that no name shall be given up to any one whatever without the owner's permission. The result of breaking it may be very annoying. A friend once worried me to write an article on a controversial subject for a very well-known paper with which he was connected, and which I will call

inclined to do it, having a poor opinion of the journal in question as it was then conducted; and when the editor sent me some ridiculous hints designed to teach me how to write up to the standard-ye gods!-of the Spread Eagle, I flatly refused. However, my friend's importunity prevailed, and the thing was done. The day after it appeared, the champion of the opposite view, who happened to know the editor, rushed in and took him to task, whereupon he promptly gave me away. The result was a ferocious attack in another journal a few days later, and much subsequent unpleasantness. It was an unpardonable breach of professional etiquette, calculated to make a personal enemy of a man with whom I had not the slightest desire to quarrel, and had in no wise attacked.

But, after all, such trifling annoyances as have come my way are nothing compared with the uniform kindness and honorable treatment I have met with at the hands of editors. There is only one general criticism that I wish to make. They hardly seem to realize the value of praise, or at least, very few of them do. I have read somewhere that Mr. Archibald Forbes used to conclude every despatch to the Daily News with these words: "and if you don't like this, you may go to the devil." That exactly expresses the mental attitude of the conscientious but spirited contributor. He is most anxious to give satisfaction and does his very utmost, but like all good workmen possessed of an ideal he mistrusts his own success. At the same time the consciousness of his effort makes him ready to resent the criticism which his diffidence teaches him to expect. A word of appreciation, however brief and businesslike, puts new life into him; the lack of it sends him about his work determined but without alacrity. At the end of a long job he may find that his work has been appreciated all the time, but that does not help him to do it; he wants an occasional assurance by the way. I have often thought myself a fool for taking excessive pains to ensure accuracy,

verifying a single statement, which occupied no more than one insignificant sentence, and probably passes quite unnoticed. One never knows; and though appreciation has not been lacking, as I gratefully acknowledge, the confidence which should reward accurate work is a plant that comes very slowly to fruition.

A CONTRIButor.

From The Cornhill Magazine. JUST A FREAK.

I.

The other night I played the impulsive fool once more, and it landed me in a bit of a bother.

We had tickets for the stalls in the theatre, to see one of Ibsen's plays"The Mutton Sausage," I think the thing was called; and fine silly bosh it was. Not that the others went to see it. They couldn't or wouldn't go, after all But it seemed such a sell to waste four tickets in that way, and so I went all by myself.

The fact is, I expected to see Ernie Grey there. Ernie and I were great chums at Eton, and it's awfully jolly to be going to the same college at Cambridge.

I positively yawned through that "Mutton Sausage." If it hadn't been for the smokes between the acts, I'd never have had the patience to sit it out, especially as Ernie wasn't to be seen anywhere. You never can rely on Ernie; that's the worst of him.

However, it came to an end at last, and I slipped into my cloak. There was rather a heavy crowd going out. I raised several sets of strong language from the dowagers because I trod on their trains. Serve them right, I say, for wearing such things.

When I was on the pavement, I hesitated. Was it, I asked myself, worth while trying to hunt up Randolph at his club? He'd stand me a soda and something if I could find him there; but, on the other hand, if I

I was thinking it over like that, and standing close up to the door of a carriage, when I heard a fellow say almost in my ear, "Here he is, m' lady!"

It was a footman, with what seemed to me a most lovely girl on his arm. I liked the curve of her cheeks immensely, and the action of her outstretched hand was also very taking.

What do you think happened next? The lady tossed her cloak loose, pitched it over my shoulders, and said:

"You naughty boy, Raymond. Why didn't you stay to help me out?"

"I-I really-" I began. "Oh, don't make excuses. Jump in quickly and atone for it."

"Yes, sir," added the lackey behind me, "they're waiting for us to move."

The fellow not only gave me a leg up, so to speak, but he pushed me inside the carriage in a way I'd like to have boxed his long ears for.

Anyhow, there we were; her ladyship (whoever she was) and I, side by side, and the horses getting up steam at every yard.

"Upon my word," I exclaimed, "there's some mistake"

"No mistake at all, you selfish cousin," was the patronizing reply. "You did it on purpose. I haven't the least doubt you devoted yourself to following some pretty girl. But it was not chivalrous of you, Raymond, indeed it was not. So early in our acquaintanceship, too! Are all the boys at Eton like that?"

Well, this settled me again. Wasn't it a coincidence that her Raymond should also be an Eton fellow? 1 wondered whose house he was in. But I didn't know any fellow of the name of Raymond. Rather a nice name, Raymond!

"No," I said, "of course they aren't. We don't get any practice there."

Her ladyship laughed a silvery little laugh. I wished there was more light inside the carriage. As it was, she didn't turn her face towards me at all, but seemed to be looking straight before her. It was a trifle queer, though not

tion.

"I didn't know you had so distinctly the making of a Lothario in you," she said.

"Nor I," I replied. "But might I inquire where we are going?"

"Going! Why home, of course. And when you have had a little supper you shall go on to your father's. You'd like some supper, Raymond?" "Certainly I should, but

"Oh no, you needn't be alarmed. We won't give you any mutton sausage. Was that what you were going to say?" "No, it was not," I answered indignantly.

"Tell me," said her ladyship, “did the characters look as foolish as their dialogue?"

"Well now, what did you think?" I retorted, naturally unwilling to give myself away.

"What should I know about their looks?" she asked quite mournfully. "Why shouldn't you?"

"Raymond!"

She turned her face towards me at last, and the reproach in her expression made me feel that I was a brute.

"Do you forget things so soon?" she asked. "Do you forget that I am all but blind?"

Now that staggered me. I don't know whether I most hated myself or pitied her.

"I'm horribly sorry," I said. "But please let me explain matters to you, and afterwards you shall do just as you think best with me."

However, she would do no such thing. She put one of her pretty hands awkwardly towards my cheek and stroked it, and suddenly rattled into a criticism of "The Mutton Sausage" that lasted until the carriage stopped. Mr. Ibsen would not have liked to hear what she said about the play.

In the mean time, I pondered how to get out of the scrape I had got myself into.

Should I slip away by the off side of the carriage when it stopped, or should I first see this blind young lady into her house?

The matter was really decided for me, which was in a sense comforting, for I do hate to make up my mind to a thing.

We stopped. I fumbled at my door and couldn't get the handle to work.

Then the other door opened, and a "Jeames" stood to attention by the step.

"Look after the cloak, Raymond," she said to me. "It is much too warm a night to have worn it."

"All right," I said, and that is how I came to follow her across the threshold of that house in Gloucester Place.

"It's a case of supper here after all," I confided to myself, not altogether ill-pleased, and upon the whole somewhat pleasurably excited by the adventure.

A fellow doesn't come of an army stock, I suppose, without rather liking to put himself into a hole, just to see how he's going to get out of it.

II.

But I oughtn't to have been such a fool. The bungle had gone quite far enough, and it was like me not to have seen that it was so.

The house looked all right inside-as comfortable as could be; and I was just pulling myself together for a little more cheek when the man at the door set to and stared at me. He stared still more when her ladyship spoke.

"We can hardly expect the earl in yet, I'm afraid, Raymond," she said.

"No?" said I.

That was when the lackey stared most. The worst of it was that our eyes clashed at the same moment.

He made a step forward-I knew what was coming, of course.

"If you please, m' lady, Mr. Raymond is not with you," said the fellow.

I was starting to tell her all about it, with ten thousand apologies and so on, when a young woman put in her oarher ladyship's maid, as it happened.

"I beg your pardon, my lady," said the damsel, "but have you the diamond cloak clasp?"

As she looked as if she wanted it, I

had thrown my companion's garment into her arms as soon as I saw her.

This wasn't all, either.

From the end of the corridor, on one side of the hall, a tall, old gentleman with white hair appeared and, coming quickly towards us, asked "Eugenia" if she were tired, and then looked mighty stern at me.

I bowed my serenest, though I admit I felt queerish.

"No, Ward," said her ladyship to the maid, "I haven't got the clasp."

"Then it's lost, your ladyship," exclaimed the girl.

"Perhaps you have it, Raymond?" was her ladyship's retort, as she turned her dim eyes towards me.

"If your lordship will be kind enough to listen to me," I said, with a cold shiver down the back (for the earl's expression was nasty), "I will try to explain how I come to be trespassing inside your lordship's house."

The earl exchanged glances with the man, and the latter shut the door.

"Be so good as to follow me," he said.

"What is the matter?" inquired Lady Eugenia, looking about her pathetically.

"I fear your ladyship has been made a victim," said that fool of a maid. "He has been personating Mr. Raymond. He is a perfect stranger."

Eugenia screamed: a musical scream. "I do assure you-" I exclaimed. But the earl interfered.

"I repeat, sir, that I will thank you to follow me," he said. "And you too, Carter."

"It was just a freak," I murmured, when I was among the earl's books, which had a frightfully depressing appearance.

"You, a stranger, have accompanied my daughter from the theatre; have dared to do so?" he inquired stormily.

"She made the mistake first," I said.
"What has that to do with it, sir?"
"I admit that I did wrong."

"Then there's the di'mond clasp, m' lord," observed the man, in a deferential whisper. What would I not have given for the liberty to punch his

impertinent head! Anyhow, I turned

on him sharply.

"But," I added, "I'll go quietly, my lord, to any police court you please.

The earl shrugged his shoulders, and his lips looked malicious.

"At any rate, I must trouble you," he said, "to turn out your pockets. Afterwards I shall be more able to understand events."

I bit my lip, and said that my pockets were entirely at the service of the menial who pleased to examine them. For my part, I would not condescend to be even an accessory to my own exoneration.

"Do so, Carter," said the earl.

We Talbots can look fierce on occasion, I've always understood. This was about the most encouraging opportunity for a little family spirit to show itself that I've ever enjoyed; and I feel sure I glared at the earl while his man approached me, with fingers to the front.

The earl met me straight. There was not much charity in his soul, I saw. And now imagine my situation when, at the first plunge, so to speak, Carter pulled forth from my waistcoat pocket a small brooch affair sparkling with diamonds.

"Here it is, m' lord!" he said triumphantly.

The earl touched a hand-bell. "How the mischief it came there is more than I can say!" I stammered.

"You need say nothing more," said the earl. "Your explanation is due to the magistrate. I do not want to hear it. Fetch a policeman."

These last words were to the man who answered the bell.

"Take him away Carter," this obliging earl continued, "and give him into custody."

"Yes, m' lord," said Carter.

The fellow made as if he would touch me. This roused me again.

"If you or any of your class lay a hand on me I'll knock you down without more words," I said. "You may as well know it."

The earl rang again.

That meant another man.

Talbot, one of the Shropshire Talbots, let me inform you, is just a commonplace peddling thief. I've got myself into this mess by being civil to a lady when invited. As for the brooch, I don't know anything about it. And that's all I do know about it."

"You just come along without all this talk," said Carter.

The two fellows closed up to me. I set my shoulders back, held up my nose, and, with a parting glance at the whitehaired earl, marched. As I marched, I suddenly bubbled into mirth. It was really too good, you know.

III.

There was a little snuggery for the porter by the door. They took me there; "Jeames" himself turning out into the hall, with his hands in his breeches pockets, to make way for us. He contemplated me jauntily, did "Jeames."

"You be advised, young man," said Carter to me, "and stop that larfin'."

I took a chair by the fire and laughed on, not altogether happily though. It occurred to me that Randolph and two or three other fellows might have got home. In that case I should miss a good hand at "nap."

"Look here," I said, "I've left my card case behind, but I'll write down my address and give the man a sovereign who'll take a line there."

My two keepers looked from me to "Jeames" and then at each other.

"Anything else, young man?" asked Carter derisively.

"You're Walker, London, aren't you?" inquired the other, not without a certain admiration in his face that appealed to me.

"And you're all a parcel of idiots," said I.

This caused a triple laugh. I was out of it.

"Nice specimen, ain't he?" "Jeames."

said

I fumbled into my pockets to feel if anything mysterious as well as ១