When it came to an actual matter of finding Jimmy, that young man proved difficult. Anthony Ditchburn went out full of confidence, but returned dejected--returned, let it be said, at a time when a meal might be expected to be spread in that top floor in Locker Street, Chelsea; he required some pressing to stay, but asked a blessing in somewhat choice Latin. Patience felt, in regard to this latter, that it might be pagan, but sounded genteel. "I have hunted high and low," said Mr. Ditchburn, sinking into a chair wearily and combing his ragged beard with his fingers. "First to the museum, where I had a good look round in all directions, but failed to find him; next, a weary tramp to Fleet Street, where I am told these struggling ones are sometimes to be discovered. But though I went to the very office of the paper, they declined to give me any information; I might even say that they looked upon me with suspicion." This was not altogether to be wondered at perhaps, seeing that Anthony Ditchburn, with tears in his eyes, had endeavoured to borrow half-a-crown at that office, on the strength of a supposed friendship with Mr. James Larrance, which had lasted for many years; and had been repulsed coldly. "They live in holes and corners, these writing people, I've heard," murmured Patience, with a shake of the head. "No getting up at regular hours; no going to bed at regular ones either. And as to meals----" Patience raised her hands and closed her eyes at the mere horror of it. "The ease of the thing surprises me," said Mr. Ditchburn presently, as he sat at the table eating ravenously. "A mere boy like this gets his name into print (I actually saw his name on a placard outside a paper shop this very afternoon) with no more qualifications than"--he looked round in search of a simile--"than you have. No grounding in the classics--nothing!" "Jimmy was always clever--and--and poetical," said Moira. "There are others who are clever--also poetical," snapped Anthony; "yet they fail to obtain a hearing. Bah! it's the spread of cheap and popular education; every young jackanapes who can spell c-a-t--cat, d-o-g--dog, thinks he has a right to give his views to the public. It's a horrible state of things--and won't be mended in my time, I fear." "But I've heard that it's difficult--very difficult indeed--to get a hearing--to persuade editors that you can write," urged Moira. "Stuff and fiddlesticks!" exclaimed the old man. "You've only got to knuckle down to 'em--to pander to a public that doesn't know what it wants. _I've_ always refused to do that--and you see the result. I would rather starve."