Flitwick," he said quietly. "I'll see what I can do. I--
I'd never even thought of it."
When the woman had gone away, closing the door behind her, he pulled the
watch out of his pocket and looked at it--an old-fashioned, good, gold
watch, which had been his father's. No doubt a pawnbroker would lend money
on it. But until then he had never had occasion to think of pawnbrokers.
He had come to London nearly two years before, intending to make name,
fame, and fortune by his pen. He had a little money to be going on with--
when he came. It had dwindled steadily, and it had been harder to replace
it than he had calculated for. And at last there he was, in that cheap
lodging, and at the end of his resources, and the cheque for his first two
accepted stories had not arrived. Neither had a loan which, sorely against
his will, he had been driven to request from the only man he could think
of--an old schoolmate, far away in Scotland. He had listened for the
postman's knock, hoping it would bring relief, for four long days--and not
one letter had come, and he was despairing and heartsick. But--there was
the watch!
He went out presently, and on the stair, feebly lighted by a jet of gas,
he ran up against a fellow-lodger--a young Jew, whom he knew by the name
of Mr.
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