George spent the night--such of it as remained after his bitter moanings outside his Mary's lodging--with the Mr. Franklyn who had accompanied him on that little “stroll up west” that had terminated in the cab adventure nearly three months before. Of all his student friends who would give him a bed, Mr. Franklyn, because in a way associated with his Mary, had come most prominently into his mind. That same association gave him a lead from which to pour out his reply to Mr. Franklyn's rallying, as they sat at supper, upon his gloom. “You remember that day after the July exam, when we went up west together?” he began. Mr. Franklyn remembered; in some gloom shook his head over the recollection. “That waitress you left me with in the shop,” said Mr. Franklyn sadly, “she--” “Oh, hang the waitress! Listen, Franklyn, After I left you I turned up past the Marble Arch--” He proceeded with some account of the love between him and his Mary; skipped all details relating to the cat; came to the impending marriage; sought advice upon the prospects of a man marrying on a locum's earnings. Mr. Franklyn listened with great sympathy. “It's a rum thing you should be placed like that, George,” he said. “I'm in just the same position.” George exclaimed eagerly--in love, youth warms to a companion--“You are!” “Well, not exactly,” Mr. Franklyn admitted. “Very nearly. I've got myself into a brute of a fix over a girl in the lager-beer garden at Earl's Court. She--” George bounced from the table, seized his hat. “Who cares a damn about your lager-beer girls?” he shouted; slammed from the house. It was then, while Mr. Franklyn laboriously indited a letter in reply to one received from the lager-beer girl's mother, that George paced Meath Street. II. At breakfast with Mr. Franklyn upon the following morning, he was in brighter trim--apologised for his over-night abruptness; apologised for the hasty meal he was making; announced that he was off to see his Mary. As he lit his pipe, “I'll see you at hospital this morning some time, old chap,” he said. “I shall dash in to fix up with the Dean about taking Bingham's place in that practice up in Yorkshire.” Mr. Franklyn prodded for another slice of bacon. “You can't, old chap,” he remarked. “That's filled.” George shouted: “Filled! What do you mean?” “Why, taken--gone. Simpson's got it--ten days ago.” An icy chill smote my poor George. After the dreadful loss of Runnygate everything had depended upon this appointment with its salary considerably above the average. “Simpson! Simmy got it!” he shouted. “What the blazes does Simmy mean by taking it? He knew I was after it.” “My good lad, you never came near the place after you'd qualified. If Simmy hadn't taken it someone else would. Bingham was in a hurry.” Blankly George stared before him. At length, “I suppose there are several other jobs going?” he asked. “None on the Dean's list,” said Mr. Franklyn. “I was looking at it last night.”