“They have made a man of me,” the youth added hoarsely. Baddlesmere put his hand on the other’s shoulder: “But you should have been promoted--you should have been promoted.... And I could so easily have sent you to a better billet.” He sat down, and, fidgeting with the paper-knife again, he added, after a pause: “By the way, Gomme, I wish you did not write such a shocking bad hand.” He smiled, half jesting, half serious. “Why don’t you practise writing?” Gomme’s face became a dull, expressionless mask: “I have, sir,” he said grimly. “How? You have!” “I’ve written a book,” he said. Baddlesmere whistled: “The devil you have!... Ah, Gomme, everybody writes books nowadays.” “But they read mine, sir,” said Netherby Gomme. He dived his hand into the breast-pocket of his coat, and, taking out a bundle of press-cuttings, drew a much-thumbed one from the others. “Listen to the mighty Thrumsby Burrage in _The Discriminator_, sir.” He read out the paragraph: “_We have here a refined humorist, whose work is stamped with the hall-mark of genius._” Baddlesmere nodded; he was only half listening. “Oh yes,” said he--“_hall-mark of genius_ is Thrumsby Burrage.” Gomme went on with a yawning travesty of the pulpit manner: “_In the present day it is indeed a veritable intellectual treat to come upon the subtle workmanship of a man of large experience of life--workmanship marked by that delicate wit which grows only to perfection in the cloistered atmosphere of scholarship._” “Yes--_cloistered atmosphere_ is Thrumsby Burrage.” Gomme’s eyes twinkled: “_We rejoice that a new man of genius has risen amongst us, and we do not hesitate to say that the anonymous writer of_ ‘The Tragedy of the Ridiculous’ _is that man_.” Anthony Baddlesmere shook off boredom, stood up slowly, stared at the gaunt yellow-haired youth before him in frank tribute of bewilderment, and said at last with hoarse surprise: “_You_ wrote this book, Gomme?” “Yes, sir,” said Netherby Gomme simply; “but when I write my tragedy----” Baddlesmere clapped a hand on his shoulder, and pleasure danced in his eyes. “But, good God! you are famous, man--famous!... And you must be making a fortune.” “No, sir--I sold the thing for a few pounds.” Anthony Baddlesmere strode up and down the room. “But, man,” said he--“I have been trying all my life, and with every advantage, to create a work of art such as this; and here are you, a mere stripling--damn it, scarcely out of knickerbockers--though, on my soul, you are nearly as old as your trousers--here are you, a mere stripling, famous!” He came to him, gripped him affectionately by the shoulder. “Of all men that I know, I would rather this thing had come to you than to any.” He turned and got to striding up and down the room again. “Famous!--at least you will be as soon as you give out your own name.” Gomme’s face had flushed a little with the praise: “But,” said he, “when I write my tragedy----” Baddlesmere turned on him sharply: