"I? nonsense! I'm no good at writing. It's as much as I can do to write an 'I. O. U.,' though I've had no end of practice. And then, as to my letters--you ought to see them! No, go ahead, old boy. You write, and I'll be critic. That's about the style of thing, I fancy." At this I sat down and commenced the laborious task of composing an advertisement. In a short time I had written out the following: "_A gentleman who accompanied a lady across the ice on the 3d of April, was separated from her, and since then has been anxious to find out what became of her. Any information will console a distracted breast. The gentleman implores the lady to communicate with him. Address Box 3,333_." I wrote this out, and was so very well satisfied with it, that I read it to Jack. To my surprise end disgust, he burst out into roars of laughter. "Why, man alive!" he cried, "that will never do. You must never put out that sort of thing, you know. You'll have the whole city in a state of frantic excitement. It's too rubbishy sentimental. No go. Try again, old man, but don't write any more of that sort of thing." I said nothing. I felt wounded; but I had a dim idea that Jack's criticism was just. It _was_ rather sentimental. So I tried again, and this time I wrote out something very different. With the following result: "_If the party who crossed the ice on the 3d of April with A. Z. will give her address, she will confer an unspeakable favor. Write to Box No. 3,333_." "Oh, that'll never do at all!" cried Jack, as I read it to him. "In the first place, your 'A. Z.' is too mysterious; and, in the second place, you are still too sentimental with your 'unspeakable favor.' Try again." I tried again, and wrote the following: "_A gentleman is anxious to learn the address of a party who accompanied him over the ice on the 3d of April. Address Box No. 3,333_." "Oh, that'll never do!" said Jack. "Why not?" "Why, man, it's too cold and formal." "Hang it all! What will suit you? One is too warm; another is too cold." Saying this, I tried once more, and wrote the following: "A. B. has been trying in vain to find the address of the party who accompanied him over the ice on the 3d of April. Will she have the kindness to communicate with him to Box No. 3,333?" "No go," said Jack. "Why not?" "Well, you see, you call her a 'party,' and then announce that this 'party' is a woman. It won't do. I wouldn't like to call any lady a 'party.' You'll have to drop that word, old boy." At this I flung down the pen in despair. "Well, hang it!" said I. "What will do? You try it, Jack." "Nonsense!" said he. "I can't write; I can only criticise. Both faculties are very good in their way. You'll have to start from another direction. I'll tell you what to do--try a roundabout way." "A roundabout way?" I repeated, doubtfully. "Yes." "What's that?" "Why, advertise for--let me see--oh, yes--advertise for the French driver. He was drowned--wasn't he?" "Yes."