Most men have a hobby of some kind, and I am certainly no exception to the general rule. Some love boating; some painting; others carving, angling, walking, shooting, or one of a hundred other diversions. The hobbies of noted men would fill a goodly volume--thus Tosti is fond of upholstering; Gladstone of tree-felling; the Sultan of Turkey is an amateur carpenter; the Shah of Persia photographs everything he can aim his lens at; the late Lord R. Churchill collected the teeth of criminals; H.R.H. the Princess of Wales has a passion for specimens of lace; and so on. Now I love none of these pursuits, but will confess at once that my delight is _a good story_; something out of the usual rut of everyday fiction; something fresh, stimulating, racy; and to gratify my hobby I have been for many years a most voluminous reader. No scientific works for me, thank you; no dreary, three-volume, society novels; give me good, sterling works of _fiction_--neither namby-pamby on the one hand, nor revoltingly realistic on the other--but sound, entertaining, well-worked-out fiction. Generally speaking, my experience of writers is disappointing. One soon finds out their style of working, and after reading a short way into a story, the _dénouement_ can frequently be correctly conjectured. Some authors are aware of this, and purposely lead their readers upon a wrong scent quite up to the penultimate chapter, and then suddenly surprise them by reversing their preconceived idea of the final disposition of the characters represented. This is extremely puzzling to that section of lady readers who “just glance at the last chapter” before wading through the volume, and must be extremely tantalizing to them as well. Now it so happens that I have little else to do in life but to obey my own sweet will; no wife have I, and but few relations, and as to them, I steadfastly believe there is a great deal of truth in the aphorism, “relatives are best apart.” So strongly am I convinced of this, that I foster a fondness for peregrinating, solitarily, over the length and breadth of England, and even for making occasional incursions into Scotland or Wales. My income is small but ample--a cosy £500 a year--upon which I can manage in comfort, especially as I have adopted a novel system of living; novel, not because it has not been carried out to a certain extent before, but because I have made a permanent institution of it; I am a dweller in a caravan, not merely during the pleasant summer months, but _à la_ gipsy, all the year round; and, what is more, I thoroughly enjoy my solitary life on wheels. I have no rates or taxes to pay, and if I have troublesome neighbours I move; in fact I am a progressive man, I am _always_ on the move.