I

Sir C. That be d- d! No one ever expected limericks to last; but let me tell you there's a lot of money in religion yet. [Kendrick shrugs his shoulders.] Let's have a squint at "Chimes" [he turns the pages over]. Hm! No! It isn't crisp enough. ask you does it look snappy? [reading from it in a startled tone]. "Problems of the day: Are we growing less spiritual?” [Angry.] Great heavens! Whose idiotic notion was that?

Kendrick. Haliburton's.

Sir C. Well, that really is a bit too thick! You know, seriously, you ought to keep an eye on things better than that.

Kendrick [hurt]. I've been giving all my time to the sporting department. Think of the trouble I've had with the "Billiard Ball" alone, to say nothing of putting the "Racecourse" on its legs. I can't attend to everything, Sir Charles.

Sir C. [still fuming]. "Are we grow

Kendrick.

That's all very fine. Where shall we find some one to take his place? It isn't the first starving curate that comes along who will be able to run Haliburton's department. He's a worker.

Sir C. What's the good of his being a worker if he's never got the hang of our style? [Holding out periodical.] Look at it!

Kendrick. I'm not defending him. I'm only saying that to find ideas for "Sabbath Chimes," "The Sunday Comrade," "The Pleasant Sunday Afternoon Record," "Sunday Tales," "The Sunday School Teacher's Friend," and "Golden Words" is none so much of a blooming picnic. I wouldn't like to have to do it myself.

Sir C. [less angry, persuasively]. All right. As you please. You're responsi ble. But wake him up.

Kendrick. Why can't you give him a lead, Sir Charles?

Sir C. Me! You know perfectly well I have all I can do for at least a couple of months, shoving the "Mercury."

Kendrick. I was forgetting that for the moment.

Sir C. It must not be forgotten even for a moment that the "Daily Mercury" is the leading line of this Company. It must also not be forgotten

we

Francis [entering, a sword-cane in his hand, very quietly]. How d'ye do, Charlie? [A pause.]

Sir C. How do, Frank? [They shake hands.] Excuse me, will you, Kendrick?

Kendrick. Certainly, Sir Charles. [Erit Kendrick r. The page-boy closes the door from outside.]

Francis. Well, Charlie, I sympathize with you. I feel just the same as you do very nervous.

Sir C. Nervous? What about? Francis [shutting up the sword-cane]. About my demeanor. How ought brothers to behave who haven't seen each other for nineteen years?

Sir C. I perceive you aren't altered. [They sit.]

Kendrick (ignoring the question). Yes, and supposing he asks me what's to take its place?

Sir C. It's his business to find out. [Handing paper to Kendrick.]

Kendrick. But what sort of thing? Sir C. Well, now. Here's a good idea. What's the series called?

Kendrick. "Problems of the Day." Sir C. What about this, then: "Ought curates to receive presents from lady-parishioners?"

Kendrick [enthusiastic]. By Jove! That's a great idea, that is! I wish you had a bit more time to spare, Sir Charles. [Nods his head approvingly.] Sir C. [pleased with himself]. That ought to give him a start, anyhow.

Fran. Wor. [off]. Open that door, or you are a doomed boy. This dagger is tipped with a deadly poison.

Sir C. What in the name of-[Goes quietly to door, back, and opens it. The figures of Francis Worgan and a pageboy are seen. A slight pause.]

Francis. That's a hard thing to say. While I was waiting in your waitingI saw in a magazine called "Golden Words," under the heading "Pregnant Utterances of the Month," "We should all strive to do a little better every day,-Archbishop of Canterbury." That is what I've been doing for nineteen years-and you tell me I haven't altered!

Sir C. You know what I mean. I mean that you still make people wonder what the devil you will say next.

Francis. You've altered, anyhow. You couldn't have said anything as clever as that nineteen years ago.

Sir C. [pleased]. Think so? [Pause.] Francis. However, physically you're astoundingly the same.

Sir C. So are you. [A pause.] I should have known you anywhere. When did you arrive?

Francis. Yesterday.

Sir C. Then I'm the first to see you. And where have you turned up from?

Francis. I've "turned up" from Japan. Via New York.

Sir C. What do you think of New York?

Francis.

I don't think of it, except by inadvertence. [Rising and going to disk, in a puzzled tone.] What is that? I saw something like it outside the door, and downstairs in the den of the commissionaire.

Sir C. [rising]. That? It's an apparatus that shows whether I can be seen or not. The red disk is up now. That means I'm engaged and can't be seen by any one, appointment or no appointment! Putting it up here puts it up outside the door and in the com. missionaire's room. Here's the green disk-that means that I'm engaged but can be disturbed. Blue means that I'm here, alone. Yellow means that I'm not in my office, but somewhere in the building. And white means that I'm out. Ingenious, eh? [In a serious tone.] Absolutely necessary, you know.

Francis [as they both sit down again]. So that explains why I had such an exciting time in getting to see you.

Sir C. [smiling]. I'm supposed to be the most difficult man to see in London.

Francis. Yes, I noticed the commissionaire was wearing several medals. Doubtless for valor. First he made me fill up a form, as inquisitive as an income-tax paper. When I told him I had an appointment, he instructed me to sit down. So I sat down and read "Golden Words" for ten minutes. Then I thought it would be a good idea to tell him I was your brother, and not merely some one of the same

name.

Sir C. What did he say then? Francis. He told me to sit down, and gave me a sceptical look, as much as to say: "You're his brother, are you? Well, so am I!" So I sat down and read "The Lad's Own Budget" for ten minutes. Then, while he was busy torturing another applicant, I nipped into the lift just as it was going up, and

I

began wandering about passages. managed to catch a boy. What a lot of boys you have!

Sir C. By the way, is that stick really poisoned?

Francis. No. It was a notion I got out of "The Lad's Own Budget." I was determined to see you or perish in the attempt. I felt sure you couldn't be coming the great man over me, especially as I'd made an appointment. I'll say this for our family, at any rate there's no affected nonsense about any of us.

Sir C. My dear chap, I hadn't the slightest notion you were in London. But how did you make an appointment? With my secretary?

Francis. Secretary! Didn't know you had one! No, I dropped you a line last night, and marked the letter "Private and Immediate."

Sir C. That's just where you made a mistake. We get about five thousand letters a day here. A van brings the first post every morning direct from St. Martin's-le-Grand. [Going to a side table and fingering a large batch of letters.] Our sorting clerks have instructions to put aside all letters addressed to me personally and marked private or urgent, and they are always opened last. [Opening a letter.] Yes, here's yours.

Francis. Why are they opened last? Sir C. It's the dodge of every begging-letter writer in England to mark his envelope "Private and Urgent." [Throws letter into waste-paper basket after glancing at it.]

Francis. I see. You may be said to have an organization here! Sir C. [putting his hands in his pockets and smiling superiorly]. You bet! Considerably over a thousand people earn their bread and butter in this building, and wages run from five bob on to a hundred pounds a week. What price that, eh?

Francis. Well, Charlie, we were

Sir C. Not often, I think. I imagine from what the mater says that his practice must be growing pretty rapidly.

Francis. What's his wife like?

Sir C. Oh, very decent woman, I should imagine.

Francis. Your relations with the family appear to be chiefly a work of imagination, my boy.

Sir C. And what about yours? Seeing that not a single member of the family has set eyes on you for nineteen years

Francis. But I'm different. I'm a wanderer. I'm one of those people who seem to have no pressing need of a home, or a national anthem, or relatives, or things of that kind. Of course one likes to meet one's relatives sometimes.

Sir C. No home? But what on earth do you do with yourself?

Francis. I just go about and keep my eyes open-and try to understand what I see.

Sir C. [staring at him]. It's you that's the caution, not me!

Francis. We're getting over it rather well, I think.

Sir C. Getting over what? What do you

Francis. Over the awkwardness of this first interview. I hope I'm not interfering with business.

Sir C. [heartily]. Not in the least. My theory is that if a really big concern is properly organized, the boss ought to be absolutely independent of all routine. He ought to be free for anything that turns up unexpectedly. Anyhow, I am.

Francis. Well, I candidly confess that this business of yours is just a size larger than I expected.

Sir C. Yes, it's big-big. We own about forty different publications; two London dailies, three provincial dailies, five popular penny weeklies, two sixpenny weeklies, three illustrated monthlies, four ladies' papers, six sporting and athletic, five religious papers, two Sunday papers

Francis. What's the subtle difference between a religious paper and a Sunday paper?

Sir C. Oh, they're-well, they're quite different! Francis.

Really!

· Sir C. Four halfpenny comic papers, four boys' papers, and I don't know what else.

Francis. I distinctly remember you saying once at school there wasn't a schoolboys' paper fit to wipe your feet on-you were always buying them to

see.

Sir C. And there wasn't! It was a boys' paper I began with "The Lad's Own Budget." The schoolboy was the foundation of this business. And let me tell you our capital is now nearly two and a half millions. Francis. The deuce it is! Sir C. Yes, didn't you know?

Francis. No, and I suppose you're the principal proprietor?

Sir C. What do you think? Kendrick and I, we control a majority of the shares. Kendrick-that's the man who was here when you came in-gets a salary of five thousand a year.

Francis. Well, this is very interesting. I've had all sorts of disconcerting impressions since I reached Charing Cross twenty-four hours ago when I saw that Exeter Hall was gone, reason tottered on her throne-but really Charlie! Really, Charlie! It sounds a strange thing to say of one's own brother-but you are the most startling phenomenon of the age.

Sir C. That's what I'm beginning to think myself.

Francis. Of course, you're a million

aire.

Sir C. Pooh! I was a millionaire six years ago. Surely you must have got a notion from the mater's letters? Francis. Very vague! She chiefly writes about Johnny's babies.

Sir C. [laughs shortly]. It's true I never give her any precise details, lest the old lady should think I was bragging. She hates that.

Francis. I'm just the least bit in the world staggered.

Sir C. Well, there it is! [leans back in his chair]).

Francis. All this, I suppose, from Uncle Joe's ten thousand.

Sir C. Precisely. What have you done with your ten thousand?

Francis. Nothing. Just lived on it. Sir C. Do you mean to say you can live on the interest of ten thousand and travel?

Francis. Why, of course. All an Englishman has to do is to avoid his compatriots. What puzzles me is how you can get through even a decent fraction of your income.

Sir C. Oh! with one thing and another, I get through a goodish bit. You heard I bought Hindhead Hall?

Sir C. Well, I thought I ought to have a place in the country. Francis. To go with the knighthood? Sir C. If you like. You must come down and see Hindhead.

Francis. Great joke, that knighthood! What did they give it you for? Sir C. Well-I'm supposed to be somebody.

Francis. I always thought knighthoods were given to nobodies.

Sir C. [a little testily]. That depends! That depends! And let me tell you that the knighthood is only a beginning.

Francis [shortly]. Ah! Only a beginning! [smiling]. I say, what did Johnny say about the knighthood?

Sir C. Nothing.

Francis. What interests me is, how you managed to do it.

Sir C. Do what? Get the knighthood? That's

Francis [interrupting him brusquely]. No. The the success, the million, the splash.

Sir C. I can tell you this-I did it honestly. That's another thing about me-I'm probably the only millionaire in the world with a clear conscience. What d'ye think of that? People say that no one can make a million in ten years and not be a scoundrel. But I did. I've never tried to form a trust. I've never tried to ruin a competitor. I've never sweated my chaps. They have to work hard, and I give 'em pepper, and I'd sack one as soon as look at him, but they are well paidsome of 'em are handsomely paid. The price of labor in journalism has gone up, and it's thanks to me. Another thing I give the best value for money that ever was given.

Francis. Yes, but how did you do it? What's your principle?

Sir C. I've only got one principle. Give the public what it wants. Don't