It says something for Edwin Pothecary that this unfortunate rebuff to his first attempt to do a good action did not send him helter-skelter back to the fried fish shop in the Waterloo Road. He felt crumpled, bruised, mortified, disappointed, discouraged; but is not the path of all martyrs and reformers strewn with similar débris? Are not all really disinterested actions liable to misconstruction? He went into a dairy and partook of a glass of milk and a bun. Then he started out again. He would see more rural, less sophisticated people. In the country there must be simple, kindly people, needing his help. He walked for several hours with but a vague sense of direction. At last he came to a public park. A group of dirty boys were seated on the grass. They were apparently having a banquet. They did not seem to require him. He passed on, and came to an enclosure. Suddenly between some rhododendron bushes he looked into a small dell. On a seat by himself was an elderly man in a shabby suit. He looked the picture of misery and distress. His hands were resting on his knees, and his eyes were fixed in a melancholy scrutiny on the ground. It was obvious that some great trouble obsessed him. He was as still as a shadow. It was the figure of a man lost in the past or—contemplating suicide? Edwin’s breath came quickly. He made his way to him. In order to do this it was necessary to climb a railing. There was probably another way round, but was there time? At any minute there might be a sudden movement, the crack of a revolver. Edwin tore his trousers and scratched his forearm, but he managed to enter the dell unobserved. He approached the seat. The man never looked up. Then Edwin said with sympathetic tears in his voice: “My poor fellow, may I be of any assistance—?” There was a disconcerting jar. The melancholy individual started and turned on him angrily: “Blast you! I’d nearly got it! What the devil are you doing here?” And without waiting for an answer he darted away among the trees. At the same time a voice called over the park railings: “Ho! you, there, what are you doing over there? You come back the way you came. I saw yer.” The burly figure of a park-keeper with gaiters and stout stick beckoned him. Edwin got up and clambered back again, scratching his arm. “Now then,” said the keeper. “Name, address, age, and occupation, if _you_ please.” “I was only—” began Edwin. But what _was_ he only doing? Could he explain to a park-keeper that he was only about to do a kind action to a poor man? He spluttered and gave his name, address, age, and occupation. “Oh,” exclaimed the keeper. “Fried fish, eh? And what were you trying to do? Get orders? Or were you begging from his lordship?” “His lordship?” “That man you was speaking to was Lord Budleigh-Salterton, the great scientist. He’s thinkin’ out ’is great invention, otherwise I’d go and ask ’im if ’e wanted to prosecute yer for being in ’is park on felonious intent or what.”