"By Jove!" I cried with a whistle. "That's a good idea! Addlestone has a ghost to do his leaders for him when he's lazy. I've seen the young fellow myself. Tom pays him six guineas a dozen, and gets three guineas apiece himself. But of course Tom has to live in much better style, and that makes it fair all round. You mean that I am to take advantage of my influence to get some other fellow work, and take a commission for the use of my name? That seems feasible enough. But where am I to find a ghost with the requisite talents?" "Here," said my great-grandfather. "What! You?" "Yes, I," he replied calmly. "But you couldn't write--" "Not now, certainly not. All I wrote now would be burnt." "Then how the devil--?" I began. "Hush!" he interrupted nervously. "Listen, and I will a tale unfold. It is called _The Learned Pig_. I wrote it in my forty-fifth year, and it is full of sketches from the life of all the more notable personages of my time, from Lord Chesterfield to Mrs. Thrale, from Peg Woffington to Adam Smith and the ingenious Mr. Dibdin. I have painted the portrait of Sir Joshua quite as faithfully as he has painted mine. Of course much of the dialogue is real, taken from conversations preserved in my note-book. It is, I believe, a complete picture of the period, and being the only book I ever wrote or intended to write, I put my whole self into it, as well as all my friends." "It must be, indeed, your masterpiece," I cried enthusiastically. "But why is it called _The Learned Pig_, and how has it escaped publication?"