One morning our headmaster walked into my room with a portentously solemn air. I felt instinctively that the murder was out. But he only said, 'Where is Y.?' though the mere coupling of our names was ominous, for our publishing partnership was unknown. I replied, 'How should I know? In his room, I suppose.' He gave me a peculiar sceptical glance. [Illustration: A POLICEMAN TOLD HIM TO GET DOWN] 'When did you last see Y.?' he said. 'Yesterday afternoon,' I replied wonderingly. 'And you don't know where he is now?' 'Haven't an idea--isn't he in school?' 'No,' he replied in low, awful tones. 'Where then?' I murmured. '_In prison!_' 'In prison!' I gasped. 'In prison; I have just been to help bail him out.' It transpired that Y. had suddenly been taken with a further happy thought. Contemplation of those gorgeous tricoloured posters had turned his brain, and, armed with an amateur paste-pot and a ladder, he had sallied forth at midnight to stick them about the silent streets, so as to cut down the publishing expenses. A policeman, observing him at work, had told him to get down, and Y., being legal-minded, had argued it out with the policeman _de haut en bas_ from the top of his ladder. The outraged majesty of the law thereupon haled Y. off to the cells. Naturally the cat was now out of the bag, and the fat in the fire. To explain away the poster was beyond the ingenuity of even a professed fiction-monger. Straightway the committee of the school was summoned in hot haste, and held debate upon the scandal of a pupil-teacher being guilty of originality. And one dread afternoon, when all Nature seemed to hold its breath, I was called down to interview a member of the committee. In his hand were copies of the obnoxious publications. I approached the great person with beating heart. He had been kind to me in the past, singling me out, on account of some scholastic successes, for an annual vacation at the seaside. It has only just struck me, after all these years, that, if he had not done so, I should not have found the page of _Society_, and so not have perpetrated the deplorable compositions. In the course of a bad quarter of an hour, he told me that the ballad was tolerable, though not to be endured; he admitted the metre was perfect, and there wasn't a single false rhyme. But the prose novelette was disgusting. 'It is such stuff,' said he, 'as little boys scribble upon walls.' I said I could not see anything objectionable in it. 'Come now, confess you are ashamed of it,' he urged. 'You only wrote it to make money.' 'If you mean that I deliberately wrote low stuff to make money,' I replied calmly, 'it is untrue. There is nothing I am ashamed of. What you object to is simply realism.' I pointed out that Bret Harte had been as realistic; but they did not understand literature on that committee. 'Confess you are ashamed of yourself,' he reiterated, 'and we will look over it.'