The Professor paused. “Oh, dear! oh, dear! I must give all this part to Hocken to keep. Ah! Now here is about his work. They have engaged him at four pounds a week. He does not know exactly what he is. Not a sub-editor. Not a reporter. He thinks they will put him on to what he calls 'special jobs,' or he may have to do what he calls 'ferret round' and find jobs for himself. The understanding is that he is only on probation. If he does anything very good they will put him on the permanent staff; if not, he is liable to go at a week's notice. Then he says, 'Tell all this to George, and give him my love. He was up for his exam--'” Professor Wyvern broke off. “Dear me!” he cried; “oh, dear me, I have forgotten! You have been up for your examination?” George nodded. Kindly old Professor Wyvern misinterpreted the lack of enthusiasm. “When I was a medical student,” he said, “I failed dozens of times in my final examination--dozens. It's no criterion of knowledge, you know: it is just luck. Never let examination failure dishearten you. Go along happily, George, and take your chance when it comes.” “It's come,” George said, beaming; recollection of his splendid success temporarily overshadowed recollection of his tragic failure. “You have qualified?” “Yes.” The Professor's sky-blue eyes danced with glee. He struggled on to his tottery old legs; before George could save him the exertion, had hobbled over the hearth-rug and was wringing his hand in tremendous pleasure. “Well done, George!” he bubbled. “Well done! Well done! It is the most splendid news. I have not had such a happy day for a long time. Qualified! Well, that is splendid! Splendid!” He fell back into his chair, panting with his excitement. “Ring that bell, George. We must celebrate this.” A maid appeared. “Susan,” said the Professor, “bring up a small bottle of champagne and two glasses. Mr. George has passed his examination. Be very quick, Susan.” Susan was very quick. The cork popped; the glasses foamed and fizzed. “Now we will have one glass each,” the Professor said. “I think, it will kill me at this hour, and if my wife catches me she will send me to bed; so we must be very quick. Now, this is your health, George. God bless you and good luck!” He drained his glass like the brave old boy that he was; and when his eyes had done streaming, and he had finished gasping and choking, bade Susan hurry away the signs of the dreadful deed before her mistress should catch her. “And now tell me your plans, George. Which road to Harley Street, eh?” Then George poured into those kindly old ears all the tragic story--the girl he was going to marry; the practice he was going to buy; the wrecker who had wrecked his fair ships ere ever he had put to sea.