“It’s the only thing I can get taken,” I said. “I’ve had quite a lot in the _Chronicle_ and occasional bits in other papers.” He seemed relieved. “Oh, that’s all right, then,” he said. “You know ‘On Your Way.’ Perhaps you’d care to come in and do that for a bit? It’s only holiday work, but it’ll last five weeks. And if you do it all right I can get you the whole of the holiday work on the column. That comes to a good lot in the year. We’re always taking odd days off. Can you come up at a moment’s notice?” “Easily,” I said. “Then, you see, if you did that you would drop into the next vacancy on the column. There’s no saying when one may occur. It’s like the General Election. It may happen tomorrow, or not for years. Still, you’d be on the spot in case.” “It’s awfully good of you.” “Not at all. As a matter of fact, I was rather in difficulties about getting a holiday man. I’m off to Scotland the day after tomorrow, and I had to find a sub. Well, then, will you come in on Monday?” “All right.” “You’ve had no experience of newspaper work, have you?” “No.” “Well, all the work at the _Orb’s_ done between nine and eleven. You must be there at nine sharp. Literally sharp, I mean. Not half-past. And you’d better do some stuff overnight for the first week or so. You’ll find working in the office difficult till you get used to it. Of course, though, you’ll always have Gresham there, so there’s no need to get worried. He can fill the column himself, if he’s pushed. Four or five really good paragraphs a day and an occasional set of verses are all he’ll want from you.” “I see.” “On Monday, then. Nine sharp. Good-bye.” I walked home along Piccadilly with almost a cake-walk stride. At last I was in the inner circle. An _Orb_ cart passed me. I nodded cheerfully to the driver. He was one of _Us_. CHAPTER 4 JULIAN EVERSLEIGH _(James Orlebar Cloyster’s narrative continued)_ I determined to celebrate the occasion by dining out, going to a theatre, and having supper afterwards, none of which things were ordinarily within my means. I had not been to a theatre since I had arrived in town; and, except on Saturday nights, I always cooked my own dinner, a process which was cheap, and which appealed to the passion for Bohemianism which I had not wholly cast out of me. The morning paper informed me that there were eleven musical comedies, three Shakespeare plays, a blank verse drama, and two comedies (“last weeks”) for me to choose from. I bought a stall at the Briggs Theatre. Stanley Briggs, who afterwards came to bulk large in my small world, was playing there in a musical comedy which had had even more than the customary musical-comedy success.