I thought things over. How did I stand? Holiday work at the _Orb_ would begin very shortly, so that I should get a good start in my race. Fermin would be going away in a few weeks, then Gresham, and after that Fane, the man who did the “People and Things” column. With luck I ought to get a clear fifteen weeks of regular work. It would just save me. In fifteen weeks I ought to have got going again. The difficulty was that I had dropped out. Editors had forgotten my work. John Hatton they knew, and Sidney Price they knew; but who was James Orlebar Cloyster? There would be much creaking of joints and wobbling of wheels before my triumphal car could gather speed again. But, with a regular salary coming in week by week from the _Orb_, I could endure this. I became almost cheerful. It is an exhilarating sensation having one’s back against the wall. Then there was Briggs, the actor. The very thought of him was a tonic. A born fighter, with the energy of six men, he was an ideal model for me. If I could work with a sixth of his dash and pluck, I should be safe. He was giving me work. He might give me more. The new edition of the _Belle of Wells_ was due in another fortnight. My lyrics would be used, and I should get paid for them. Add this to my _Orb_ salary, and I should be a man of substance. I glared over my coffee-cup at an imaginary John Hatton. “You thought you’d done me, did you?” I said to him. “By Gad! I’ll have the laugh of you all yet.” I was shaking my fist at him when the door opened. I hurriedly tilted back my chair, and looked out of the window. “Hullo, Cloyster.” I looked round. It was Fermin. Just the man I wanted to see. He seemed depressed. Even embarrassed. “How’s the column?” I asked. “Oh, all right,” he said awkwardly. “I wanted to see you about that. I was going to write to you.” “Oh, yes,” I said, “of course. About the holiday work. When are you off?” “I was thinking of starting next week.” “Good. Sorry to lose you, of course, but——” He shuffled his feet. “You’re doing pretty well now at the game, aren’t you, Cloyster?” he said. It was not to my interests to cry myself down, so I said that I was doing quite decently. He seemed relieved. “You’re making quite a good income, I suppose? I mean, no difficulty about placing your stuff?” “Editors squeal for it.” “Because, otherwise what I wanted to say to you might have been something of a blow. But it won’t affect you much if you’re doing plenty of work elsewhere.” A cold hand seemed laid upon my heart. My mind leaped to what he meant. Something had gone wrong with the _Orb_ holiday work, my sheet-anchor. “Do you remember writing a par about Stickney, the butter-scotch man, you know, ragging him when he got his peerage?” “Yes.”