"And are they all clamouring for their money?" "Yes, the sharks." Edith lay back in her chair and thought. Suddenly she sat up. "It can't be helped," she said. "Some of them will have to wait. We'll put their names in a hat and the first three we draw out get paid." "Yes," I objected, "but what about my overcoats?" "You must wait." "No," I said, "I have a better idea." I paused impressively. "I think that we can fairly assume that my creditors are sportsmen. At any rate, they must have the benefit of the doubt. That being so, I put my own name in the hat and draw against them. If I'm in the first three I get my new coats." "But----" "Not a word." I slipped noiselessly out of the room and came back with Henry's Homburg. In less than five minutes everything was prepared. "Now," said Edith, and she put her hand in the hat. There was a tense silence. "(1) Glover, (2) Tobacconist, (3) Tailor. Bad luck!" I suppressed a groan. Had I not been sitting down, I should probably have reeled. Then, with an effort, I pulled myself together and smiled. "Well, that's all right," I said. "All right?" "Certainly," I said; "I can pay off the first two." "But what about the tailor?" "I have thought of that," said I. "I shall make a distinction in his favour. I shall give him an order for two coats. Surely that means more to him than a mere settlement." "Yes," said Edith doubtfully. "But of course you'll pay him the money?" I laughed amazedly. "My dear girl! Either I pay his account just like the other two, or I distinguish him by ordering the new coats. He can't have it both ways. And I couldn't very well pay for the new coats, if that's what you mean, before the old account is settled. You see that?" "Yes, but still it doesn't seem----" "Ah, perhaps not," I said, "perhaps not, at first sight. I hardly saw it myself at first. It was really a clever idea of yours." Edith brightened visibly. "Yes, wasn't it?" she said. * * * * * AN EPIC FROM THE PROVINCES. My dear Charles,--I know that from your superior standpoint as a Londoner you are disposed to regard us as dwellers in a quiet backwater, unswayed by the currents of political strife, but you must not imagine that the stirring events of the past few weeks have failed to leave their mark on the life of our little town. A study of the Press--that faithful mirror of our time--would quickly convince you to the contrary. The Press, as you know, is here represented by _The Signal_, a fine old weekly journal of inflexible Unionist views. Well, last week, rising on a wave of enthusiasm, _The Signal_ burst into poetry. _The Gun Runners_, it is called, by "Cecilia Merrifield." The air is still, the night is dark; Along the harbour side There stands a silent, waiting park Of motors, full inside. That is the opening stanza. You may possibly take exception to the French rhyme, but you cannot fail, Charles, to appreciate the fine spirit of it.