‘That’s extremely lucky for you; I haven’t had a scrap of hope for a month, and I’m afraid you’d starve if you depended on me.’ ‘Thank you, that’s all right--good night.’ The Author slept heavily, all dressed as he was when he threw himself down on the bed. The little Ghost took off his necktie and his little boots, and, folding his coat carefully for a pillow, he too slept, after adjusting the pen-wiper for a coverlid. At six o’clock the little Ghost got up and rambled about the table for a while. He regulated the loose sheets of manuscript and counted the pages. He looked quite well in the morning light, and his step had the assurance and measured quality that comes only to the prosperous. He carried his left hand carelessly in his pocket, with his elbow slightly raised, after the manner of the man of the world. He began to be restless towards seven o’clock, and at half-past seven he took his breakfast, very sparingly, off of his stock of hope, evidently considering the possibility of a longer stay than he had anticipated when he first got up. At eight o’clock, his face was full of anxiety, and he had dropped his nonchalant air and had taken his hand out of his pocket. At nine, his head was bent, and he paced to and fro from the inkstand to the dictionary, with his hands clasped behind him. He looked old and feeble. At ten, he had a slight fainting turn and had to sit down on the cuff-box. His forehead was damp and he shivered; he was evidently deeply disturbed, and he was a pitiful little object to look at. Then the Author awoke, and, sitting up, called out: ‘Why, great heavens! what is the matter, are you ill?’ ‘Thank you, I do feel a little off this morning.’ ‘Morning, is it? Why, I feel as if I had just dropped off; you haven’t been drinking my ink, have you? You are all blue around the gills?’ The little Ghost was offended, but he did not answer except by a reproachful look. ‘Oh, don’t play the lacrimoso role; I’ll be up in no time, and you must remember I wrote a pile last night; just hear me read some of it. Why, did I do all this? It reads better than I thought.’ ‘Yes, it reads very well--_very well indeed_. I think I will go out and take a stroll, and lunch at the club, and not write any more till to-night; I do my best work at night.’ As the Author said this, he looked right at the Ghost; there was a feeling in the room that somebody was justifying himself, but the little Ghost said nothing. Then the Author made himself a cup of coffee and freshened himself up, all the time not looking at the little Ghost. Then he took his cane, and, going out, he nodded carelessly, and said: ‘Good-bye, old boy; I will be back in good time, don’t worry.’ All the way down the street the Author kept hearing the words: ‘I am all the chance you’ve got--I am all the chance you’ve got,--I am all the chance you’ve got.’