On the morning of Sunday, William Dent Pitman rose at his usual hour, although with something more than the usual reluctance. The day before (it should be explained) an addition had been made to his family in the person of a lodger. Michael Finsbury had acted sponsor in the business, and guaranteed the weekly bill; on the other hand, no doubt with a spice of his prevailing jocularity, he had drawn a depressing portrait of the lodger's character. Mr Pitman had been led to understand his guest was not good company; he had approached the gentleman with fear, and had rejoiced to find himself the entertainer of an angel. At tea he had been vastly pleased; till hard on one in the morning he had sat entranced by eloquence and progressively fortified with information in the studio; and now, as he reviewed over his toilet the harmless pleasures of the evening, the future smiled upon him with revived attractions. 'Mr Finsbury is indeed an acquisition,' he remarked to himself; and as he entered the little parlour, where the table was already laid for breakfast, the cordiality of his greeting would have befitted an acquaintanceship already old.
'I am delighted to see you, sir'--these were his expressions--'and I trust you have slept well.'
'Accustomed as I have been for so long to a life of almost perpetual change,' replied the guest, 'the disturbance so often complained of by the more sedentary, as attending their first night in (what is called) a new bed, is a complaint from which I am entirely free.'
'I am delighted to hear it,' said the drawing-master warmly. 'But I see I have interrupted you over the paper.'
'The Sunday paper is one of the features of the age,' said Mr Finsbury. 'In America, I am told, it supersedes all other literature, the bone and sinew of the nation finding their requirements catered for; hundreds of columns will be occupied with interesting details of the world's doings, such as water-spouts, elopements, conflagrations, and public entertainments; there is a corner for politics, ladies' work, chess, religion, and even literature; and a few spicy editorials serve to direct the course of public thought. It is difficult to estimate the part played by such enormous and miscellaneous repositories in the education of the people. But this (though interesting in itself) partakes of the nature of a digression; and what I was about to ask you was this: Are you yourself a student of the daily press?'
'There is not much in the papers to interest an artist,' returned Pitman.
'In that case,' resumed Joseph, 'an advertisement which has appeared the last two days in various journals, and reappears this morning, may possibly have failed to catch your eye. The name, with a trifling variation, bears a strong resemblance to your own. Ah, here it is. If you please, I will read it to you:
WILIAM BENT PITMAN, if this should meet the eye of, he will hear of SOMETHING TO HIS ADVANTAGE at the far end of the main line departure platform, Waterloo Station, 2 to 4 P.M. today.
'Is that in print?' cried Pitman. 'Let me see it! Bent? It must be Dent! SOMETHING TO MY ADVANTAGE? Mr Finsbury, excuse me offering a word of caution; I am aware how strangely this must sound in your ears, but there are domestic reasons why this little circumstance might perhaps be better kept between ourselves. Mrs Pitman--my dear Sir, I assure you there is nothing dishonourable in my secrecy; the reasons are domestic, merely domestic; and I may set your conscience at rest when I assure you all the circumstances are known to our common friend, your excellent nephew, Mr Michael, who has not withdrawn from me his esteem.'
'A word is enough, Mr Pitman,' said Joseph, with one of his Oriental reverences.
Half an hour later, the drawing-master found Michael in bed and reading a book, the picture of good-humour and repose.
'Hillo, Pitman,' he said, laying down his book, 'what brings you here at this inclement hour? Ought to be in church, my boy!'
'I have little thought of church today, Mr Finsbury,' said the drawing-master. 'I am on the brink of something new, Sir.' And he presented the advertisement.
'Why, what is this?' cried Michael, sitting suddenly up. He studied it for half a minute with a frown. 'Pitman, I don't care about this document a particle,' said he.
'It will have to be attended to, however,' said Pitman.
'I thought you'd had enough of Waterloo,' returned the lawyer.
'Have you started a morbid craving? You've never been yourself anyway since you lost that beard. I believe now it was where you kept your senses.'
'Mr Finsbury,' said the drawing-master, 'I have tried to reason this matter out, and, with your permission, I should like to lay before you the results.'
'Fire away,' said Michael; 'but please, Pitman, remember it's Sunday, and let's have no bad language.'
'There are three views open to us,' began Pitman. 'First this may be connected with the barrel; second, it may be connected with Mr Semitopolis's statue; and third, it may be from my wife's brother, who went to Australia. In the first case, which is of course possible, I confess the matter would be best allowed to drop.'
'The court is with you there, Brother Pitman,' said Michael.
'In the second,' continued the other, 'it is plainly my duty to leave no stone unturned for the recovery of the lost antique.'
'My dear fellow, Semitopolis has come down like a trump; he has pocketed the loss and left you the profit. What more would you have?' enquired the lawyer.
'I conceive, sir, under correction, that Mr Semitopolis's generosity binds me to even greater exertion,' said the drawing-master. 'The whole business was unfortunate; it was--I need not disguise it from you--it was illegal from the first: the more reason that I should try to behave like a gentleman,' concluded Pitman, flushing.
