What the profits were I never knew, for they were invested in the second of our publications. Still jealously keeping the authorship secret, we published a long comic ballad which I had written on the model of Bab. With this we determined to launch out in style, and so we had gorgeous advertisement posters printed in three colours, which were to be stuck about London to beautify that great dreary city. Y. saw the back-hair of Fortune almost within our grasp.
“a policeman told him
to get down.”
One morning our headmaster walked into my room with a portentously solemn air. I felt instinctively that the murder was out. But he only said “Where is Y.?” though the mere coupling of our names was ominous, for our publishing partnership was unknown. I replied, “How should I know? In his room, I suppose.”
He gave me a peculiar sceptical glance.
“When did you last see Y.?” he said.
“Yesterday afternoon,” I replied wonderingly.
“And you don’t know where he is now?”
“Haven’t an idea—isn’t he in school?”
“No,” he replied in low, awful tones.