“That’s the lot,” he answered, “save what I stand up in.” Eliphalet went through the tickets to see what most essentially should be redeemed. “You’d like your ulster, eh?” “It’s been a good friend to me—still, two pound ten, y’know.” “Not another word,” said Eliphalet. When they emerged from the pawn-shop Sefton Bulmore was clad in a fur-collared coat which, despite a shade of wear about the cuffs and elbows, was a garment any actor might be proud to wear. “And now,” said Eliphalet, “we’ll make for home and have our first talk about the play.” There was a note of disappointment in Bulmore’s acquiescence, that called for a querying eyebrow from Eliphalet. “I was only thinking—just to-night—old friends re-meeting—and—as a little celebration——” He tilted his head suggestively toward the brilliantly-lighted windows of the Goat Hotel. “I never do,” said Eliphalet. “No, no, I understand—but—to the success of the play—a couple of glasses!” Eliphalet shook his head. “You go,” he said. “Here, take——” And he pressed some silver into Bulmore’s palm, “I’d—I’d rather not.” “It’s sad work drinking alone.” “I shall have the pleasure of your company at home all the sooner, then.” It was after eleven before Bulmore returned, and bed was the obvious prescription. So Eliphalet helped him undress, and listened to a good deal of maudlin matter, without which the evening would have been a happier one. Next morning they set to work mapping out a scheme for their future. Being accustomed to work at night, they made their plans accordingly. They would breakfast late, partake of their one serious meal at three o’clock, enjoy a cup of tea about half-past five, and devote the evening hours to work upon the play. At midnight the traditional Welsh rarebit, washed down with a jug of good milky cocoa, would be served—then a pipe and bed. To relieve any embarrassment in giving or receiving, Eliphalet arranged that each should draw the same weekly sum, and share alike in all things. Thus the terms of partnership were laid down, and together they set about to write such a play as would stagger the world. The plot was everything, they decided, and so to the making of the plot were dedicated countless hours and an incredible quantity of paper. As the work proceeded Bulmore’s spirits grew apace. “We’ve got ’em!” he would shout. “There’s a fortune here, old man.” And so great would be his enthusiasm that it was an all-too frequent occurrence for him to abandon work in the early part of the evening and drink copious draughts to their inevitable success. These little excesses were the cause of no small concern to Eliphalet Cardomay. Bulmore would often spend his entire weekly allowance in a night at the bar; thus, when the day for settling their accounts arrived, it would be necessary for Eliphalet to draw on his dwindling principal to make good the deficit.