“Don’t stand there like a stuck pig, No. 3,” said Mr. Meeson, fiercely; “but suggest something.” “Well, Sir,” said No. 3 more humbly than ever, for he was terribly afraid of his employer; “I think, perhaps, that somebody had better go to Australia, and see what can be done.” “I know one thing that can be done,” said Mr. Meeson, with a snarl: “all those fools out there can be sacked, and sacked they shall be; and, what’s more, I’ll go and sack them myself. That will do No. 3; that will do;” and No. 3 departed, and glad enough he was to go. As he went a clerk arrived, and gave a card to the great man. “Miss Augusta Smithers,” he read; then with a grunt, “show Miss Augusta Smithers in.” Presently Miss Augusta Smithers arrived. She was a tall, well-formed young lady of about twenty-five, with pretty golden hair, deep grey eyes, a fine forehead, and a delicate mouth; just now, however, she looked very nervous. “Well, Miss Smithers, what is it?” asked the publisher. “I came, Mr. Meeson—I came about my book.” “Your book, Miss Smithers?” this was an affectation of forgetfulness; “let me see?—forgive me, but we publish so many books. Oh, yes, I remember; ‘Jemima’s Vow.’ Oh, well, I believe it is going on fairly.” “I saw you advertised the sixteenth thousand the other day,” put in Miss Smithers, apologetically. “Did we—did we? ah, then, you know more about it than I do,” and he looked at his visitor in a way that conveyed clearly enough that he considered the interview was ended. Miss Smithers rose, and then, with a spasmodic effort, sat down again. “The fact is, Mr. Meeson,” she said—“The fact is, that, I thought that, perhaps, as ‘Jemima’s Vow’ had been such a great success, you might, perhaps—in short, you might be inclined to give me some small sum in addition to what I have received.” Mr. Meeson looked up. His forehead was wrinkled till the shaggy eyebrows nearly hid the sharp little eyes. “What!” he said. “_What_!” At this moment the door opened, and a young gentleman came slowly in. He was a very nice-looking young man, tall and well shaped, with a fair skin and jolly blue eyes—in short, a typical young Englishman of the better sort, aetate suo twenty-four. I have said that he came slowly in, but that scarcely conveys the gay and _dégagé_ air of independence which pervaded this young man, and which would certainly have struck any observer as little short of shocking, when contrasted with the worm-like attitude of those who crept round the feet of Meeson. This young man had not, indeed, even taken the trouble to remove his hat, which was stuck upon the back of his head, his hands were in his pockets, a sacrilegious whistle hovered on his lips, and he opened the door of the sanctum sanctorum of the Meeson establishment _with a kick_! “How do, uncle?” he said to the Commercial Terror, who was sitting there behind his formidable books, addressing him even as though he were an ordinary man. “Why, what’s up?”