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“I know you did. It’s the rotten sort of thing you would think. Rag, by Jove! Look at this. Now do you understand that this is a genuine concern?”

He got up and went to the cupboard which filled the space between the stove and the bookshelf. From this resting-place he extracted a great pile of manuscript and dumped it down on the table with a bang which caused a good deal of Jackson’s tea to spring from its native cup on to its owner’s trousers.

“When you’ve finished,” protested Jackson, mopping himself with a handkerchief that had seen better days.

“Sorry. But look at these. What did you say your impot was? Oh, I remember. Here you are. Two pages of ‘Quatre-Vingt Treize.’ I don’t know which two pages, but I suppose any will do.”

Jackson was amazed.

“Great Scott! what a wad of stuff! When did you do it all?”

“Oh, at odd times. Dunstable’s got just as much over at Day’s. So you see the Trust is a jolly big show. Here are your two pages. That looks just like your scrawl, doesn’t it? These would be fourpence in the ordinary way, but you can have ’em for nothing this time.”

“Oh, I say,” said Jackson gratefully, “that’s awfully good of you.”

After that the Locksley Lines Supplying Trust, Ltd. went ahead with a rush. The brilliant success which attended its first specimen–M. Gaudinois took Jackson’s imposition without a murmur–promoted confidence in the public, and they rushed to buy. Orders poured in from all the houses, and by the middle of the term the organisers of the scheme were able to divide a substantial sum.

“How are you getting on round your way?” asked Linton of Dunstable at the end of the sixth week of term.

“Ripping. Selling like hot cakes.”

“So are mine,” said Linton. “I’ve almost come to the end of my stock. I ought to have written some more, but I’ve been a bit slack lately.”

“Yes, buck up. We must keep a lot in hand.”

“I say, did you hear that about Merrett in our house?” asked Linton.

“What about him?”

“Why, he tried to start a rival show. Wrote a prospectus and everything. But it didn’t catch on a bit. The only chap who bought any of his lines was young Shoeblossom. He wanted a couple of hundred for Appleby. Appleby was on to them like bricks. Spotted Shoeblossom hadn’t written them, and asked who had. He wouldn’t say, so he got them doubled. Everyone in the house is jolly sick with Merrett. They think he ought to have owned up.”

“Did that smash up Merrett’s show? Is he going to turn out any more?”

“Rather not. Who’d buy ’em?”

It would have been better for the Lines Supplying Trust if Merrett had not received this crushing blow and had been allowed to carry on a rival business on legitimate lines. Locksley was conservative in its habits, and would probably have continued to support the old firm.

As it was, the baffled Merrett, a youth of vindictive nature, brooded over his defeat, and presently hit upon a scheme whereby things might be levelled up.

One afternoon, shortly before lock-up, Dunstable was surprised by the advent of Linton to his study in a bruised and dishevelled condition. One of his expressive eyes was closed and blackened. He also wore what is known in ring circles as a thick ear.

“What on earth’s up?” inquired Dunstable, amazed at these phenomena. “Have you been scrapping?”

“Yes–Merrett–I won. What are you up to–writing lines? You may as well save yourself the trouble. They won’t be any good.” Dunstable stared.

“The Trust’s bust,” said Linton.

He never wasted words in moments of emotion.

“What!”

“‘Bust’ was what I said. That beast Merrett gave the show away.”

“What did he do? Surely he didn’t tell a master?”

“Well, he did the next thing to it. He hauled out that prospectus, and started reading it in form. I watched him do it. He kept it under the desk and made a foul row, laughing over it. Appleby couldn’t help spotting him. Of course, he told him to bring him what he was reading. Up went Merrett with the prospectus.”