'money down')--all this I say brought upon me two inflictions,--first, any amount of invitations to social and artistic functions,--and secondly, a continuous stream of begging-letters. I was compelled to employ a secretary, who occupied a room near my suite, and who was kept hard at work all day. Needless to say I refused all appeals for money;--no one had helped _me_ in my distress, with the exception of my old chum 'Boffles,'--no one save he had given me even so much as a word of sympathy,--I was resolved now to be as hard and as merciless as I had found my contemporaries. I had a certain grim pleasure in reading letters from two or three literary men, asking for work 'as secretary or companion,' or failing that, for the loan of a little cash to 'tide over present difficulties.' One of these applicants was a journalist on the staff of a well-known paper who had promised to find _me_ work, and who instead of doing so, had, as I afterwards learned, strongly dissuaded his editor from giving me any employment. He never imagined that Tempest the millionaire, and Tempest the literary hack, were one and the same person,--so little do the majority think that wealth can ever fall to the lot of authors! I wrote to him myself however and told him what I deemed it well he should know, adding my sarcastic thanks for his friendly assistance to me in time of need,--and herein I tasted something of the sharp delight of vengeance. I never heard from him again, and I am pretty sure my letter gave him material not only for astonishment but meditation.