"What, the man who is always advertising himself?"
"Yes," agreed the Writer, "and unfortunately he has the power to do so through the medium of the newspapers; his letters to London are one of the features of the Press," added the Writer significantly.
"Don't tell me," entreated the Lord Mayor, with an imploring look in his eyes, "that he will make me, the Lord Mayor of London, a subject for his heartless gibes."
"He's certain to write two columns about it in one of to-morrow or the next day's papers," declared the Writer hopelessly. "Do you suppose such a man would waste such material and copy as that for one of his satirical eruptions?"
The Lord Mayor groaned aloud at the very thought of this new terror, which threatened to descend like the sword of Damocles and crush all the joy of his new civic dignity. With trembling hands he folded his bright robe and glittering chain of office; the Lord Mayor felt that he could no longer bear the sight of them.
"What on earth I can say to Mum for being out as late as this I don't know," lamented the Mayor dolefully; "she will, of course, believe I have been to another Pantomime; she always taxes me with having gone to a Pantomime whenever I stay out late. However," sighed the Mayor, "I shall show her the Dick Whittington which has really been the cause of all the trouble."
It may have been that Sir Simon was still unusually agitated from the scene he had recently passed through, to say nothing of the vague foreboding caused by the knowledge that Mr. Learnéd Bore might conceivably do anything within the next few days. There is a possibility that his hand trembled; whatever may have been the cause, as Sir Simon lifted the little Dick Whittington from the table, he let it fall. As it crashed upon the hard polished floor it broke into a dozen pieces, and the merry little figure of Dick Whittington was hopelessly shattered. Sir Simon looked blankly at the Writer.
The Writer looked blankly back at Sir Simon.
As poor Sir Simon ruefully picked up the pieces, he looked disconsolate enough to be upon the verge of tears. The Writer, although keenly affected by the loss, tried, although unsuccessfully, to comfort him.
"Never mind, Dad, it can't be helped, and I suppose Dick Whittington has served his day."