THE DERSINGHAMS AT HOME

a man who time after time had found himself the last in
the group, waiting at the corner, with the hope inspired
by the letter, the letter that came thunderingly, trium-
phantly, that morning, like an act of deliverance, now
dying in him.

"My fault," Mr. Smeeth assured him, stopping, and
offering the smile of a polite culprit. But when their
eyes met fairly, this smile trembled, then fled, leaving
Mr. Smeeth himself grave, anxious. He suddenly felt
for this man a swelling sympathy, a deep stir of pity,
that he had not known for many a month. They might
have been brothers; and, indeed, brothers they were for
a second or so, peering at one another in some darkened
house of tragedy.

"Good luck!" Mr. Smeeth heard himself saying.

'Thanks," and there came the ghost of a smile.

Mr. Smeeth never saw him again. He had no luck.
The successful applicant was very different, much
younger, a tall fellow with a remarkably small head, an
inquisitive pink nose, and a very wide mouth that
opened to show about twice the ordinary number of
teeth. His name was Sandycroft, and he knew the trade,
for though he had never sold veneers and inlays, he had
bought them, having been at one time with Briggs
Brothers. This set him apart from all the other appli-
cants. Moreover, he appeared to be all keenness and
energy, and threw the most passionate emphasis into the
slightest remark he made.

"Mr. Twigg," he cried, addressing Mr. Golspie, "and
Mr. Dersingham, you can rely on me. I know the trade.
I know the people. I know the ropes, if you don't mind
me saying so."

"All right," said Mr. Golspie, with his usual genial