“Why, this sort of thing,” he said, tapping the “Saturday”; “the real stuff, you know.”
“Indeed,” I said, “we don’t. You’re always welcome to the reversion of my place in it for one.”
“O, me!” he said airily. “It don’t positively apply there, you see, being a sort of a kind of a professional myself.”
“My Sweet!” I exclaimed. “A professional—you?”
“O, yes,” he said. “Didn’t you know? Write for the ‘Argonaut.’ Little thing of mine in it last number.”
I felt faint.
“May I see it?” I murmured. “If I don’t mistake, it’s under your elbow at this moment.”
“Is it?” he answered, blushing flagrantly, “Lor’ bless me, so it is!”
I took it from his hand, opened it, and read, over his undoubted signature—Marmaduke Sweeting—the title, “The Fool of the Family.”
“Ah!” I thought, “of course. Like title like author.”