"DEAR LEAVESLEY,--I am in bed, not suffering from smallpox, croup, spinal meningitis, or any wasting or infectious disease. I am in bed, my dear Leavesley, simply for want of my trousers. Robed in Jones' long ulster, which reacheth to my heels, I took the aforesaid garments yester-even after dusk to my uncle. If help does not come they will have to take me to the workhouse in a blanket. I enclose duplicate. Three and sevenpence would release me and them. "'The die is cast And this is the last.' "From THE CAPTAIN. '_P.S_.--If you have no money send me the 'Count of Monte Cristo'--you have a copy; or the 'Multi-Millionaire.' I have nothing to read but a _Financial News_ of the day before yesterday." Leavesley groaned and laughed, and groaned again. Then he got into his bath and splashed; as he splashed his spirits rose amazingly. The Captain's letter had electrified the Bohemian part of his nature; instead of depressing him it had done the reverse. Here was another poor devil worse off than himself. Leavesley had six pair of trousers. The Captain, in parenthesis let me say, has no part in this story. He wasn't a captain, he was a relic of the South African War, a gentleman with a taste for drink, amusing, harmless, and amiable. I only introduce him on account of the telepathic interest of his letter, or rather of the way in which Leavesley divined its contents. "Seven and sixpence--I mean seven and sevenpence halfpenny, is not a bit of use," said the painter to himself when he had finished breakfast, "so here goes." He put three and sevenpence in an envelope with the pathetic duplicate, addressed it to Captain Waring, rang for Belinda; and when that much-harried maid-of-all-work appeared, told her to take it as soon as she could to Captain Waring, down the road over the bacon shop, also to call at Mr Verneede's and ask him to come round at twelve. Then he reached down a finished picture, wrapped it in brown paper, put the parcel under his arm and started off. He took a complication of omnibuses, and arrived in Wardour Street about half-past nine. "Mr Fernandez is gone to the country on pizzines," said the Jew-boy slave of the picture dealer, who came from the interior of the gloomy shop like a dirty gnome, called forth by the ring of the door bell. "Oh, d----n!" said Leavesley. "He's gone on pizzines," replied the other. "Where's he gone to?" "Down in the country." "Look here, I want to sell a picture." "Mr Fernandez is gone on pizzines." "Oh, dash Mr Fernandez! Is there no one here I can show the thing to? He knows me." "There's only me," said the grimy sphinx. "Can you buy it?" "No, I ain't no use for buying. Mr Fernandez is gone on----" "Oh, go to the devil!" "This is a nice sort of thing," said Leavesley to himself as he stood in Wardour Street perspiring. "There's nothing for it now but a frontal attack on uncle."