Like most of his kidney, his life was a series of financial “ups and downs.” Sometimes he was full of money; as often he was stony-broke. It was during one of these latter periods that he was sitting in “the Roman’s” lonely and disconsolate. To him entered, like a ray of sunshine, a man-about-town in his little way, a votary of the drama, and an habitué of Romano’s. He was one of those, also, who took Dick Barnard seriously, supposing him to be a person of great influence on the Turf, the Stage, and in Society. Dick brightened up at the advent of his friend, but, of course, he did not evince any particular elation. His satisfaction was naturally enhanced when the young man from the country invited him to lunch. Barnard accepted in the manner of a man who was conferring a favour. They went into the narrow dining-saloon behind the bar—that was the only _salle à manger_ Romano boasted in his halcyon days—and ordered luncheon for two from Otto the waiter. During lunch Barnard related such items of news as he thought would interest. And in return for these bits of scandal his friend told him that he had just been down in the Boro’ selling his father’s crop of hops, and that he was carrying home the spoils in his note-case—spoils amounting to several hundred pounds. To a man who had not fingered a banknote for a month of Sundays this was news indeed. They did themselves fairly well—as well as a bill of fifteen shillings will allow two lunchers to do themselves at “the Roman’s.” When coffee had been served, and the lofty-minded Otto had gone to take orders from another customer, the young gentleman leaned across the table, and whispered to Barnard: “I’ll pass you a tenner under the table; please pay the bill and give me the change outside.” “Certainly, sonny,” said Dick; “but may I ask the reason of all this mystery?” “The fact is, I’ve no smaller change, and I owe Otto a bit,” was the answer. “Oh!” said Dick sympathetically. The tenner was duly passed under the table. The young man lit a cigarette and left the room, passing out into the “roaring Strand.” He waited for a quarter of an hour cooling his heels on the pavement, when he was rejoined by his friend. “Your change, old chap,” said Dick sweetly, as he handed the youth five shillings. “But, my dear fellow, that was a ten-pun note I gave you,” he said. “I know,” replied Dick. “But, you see, _I owed Otto a bit too_.” How the ingenuous youth explained matters to his father, I have never heard.