On a summer afternoon two surly men sat together in a London lodging. One of them occupied an easy-chair, smoked a cigarette, and read the newspaper; the other was seated at the table, with a mass of papers before him, on which he laboured as though correcting exercises. They were much of an age, and that about thirty, but whereas the idler was well dressed, his companion had a seedy appearance and looked altogether like a man who neglected himself. For half an hour they had not spoken. Of a sudden the man in the chair jumped up. 'Well, I have to go into town,' he said gruffly, 'and it's uncertain when I shall be back. Get that stuff cleared off, and reply to the urgent letters--mind you write in the proper tone to Dixon--as soapy as you can make it. Tell Miss Brewer we can't reduce the fees, but that we'll give her credit for a month. Guarantee the Leicestershire fellow a pass if he begins at once.' The other, who listened, bit the end of his wooden penholder to splinters. 'All right,' he replied. 'But, look here, I want a little money.' 'So do I.' 'Yes, but you're not like me, without a coin in your pocket. Look here, give me half-a-crown. I have absolute need of it. Why, I can't even get my hair cut. I'm sick of this slavery.' 'Then go and do better,' cried the well-dressed man insolently. 'You were glad enough of the job when I offered it to you. It's no good your looking to me for money. I can do no more myself than just live; and as soon as I see a chance, you may be sure I shall clear out of this rotten business.' He moved towards the door, but before opening it stood hesitating. 'Want to get your hair cut, do you? Well, there's sixpence, and it's all I can spare.' The door closed. And the man at the table, leaning back, stared gloomily at the sixpenny piece on the table before him.