Pinkerton was in the waiting-room, feverishly jotting in his pocket-book. As he saw me enter, he sprang up, and I declare the tears were trickling on his cheeks. “My dear boy,” he cried, “I can never forgive myself, and you can never forgive me. Never mind: I did it for the best. And how nobly you clung on! I dreaded we should have had to return the money at the doors.” “It would have been more honest if we had,” said I. The pressmen followed me, Harry Miller in the front ranks; and I was amazed to find them, on the whole, a pleasant set of lads, probably more sinned against than sinning, and even Harry Miller apparently a gentleman. I had in oysters and champagne--for the receipts were excellent--and being in a high state of nervous tension, kept the table in a roar. Indeed, I was never in my life so well inspired as when I described my vigil over Harry Miller's literature or the series of my emotions as I faced the audience. The lads vowed I was the soul of good company and the prince of lecturers; and--so wonderful an institution is the popular press--if you had seen the notices next day in all the papers, you must have supposed my evening's entertainment an unqualified success. I was in excellent spirits when I returned home that night, but the miserable Pinkerton sorrowed for us both. “O, Loudon,” he said, “I shall never forgive myself. When I saw you didn't catch on to the idea of the lecture, I should have given it myself!” CHAPTER VII. IRONS IN THE FIRE. Opes Strepitumque.