sketchy acquaintance with general literature and a third class in the classical tripos. 

 He had come to Guernsey to learn by personal observation what chances tomato growing held out to a young man in a hurry to get rich. 

 “Tomato growing?” I echoed dubiously. And then, to hide a sense of bathos, “People have made it pay. Of course, they work very hard.” 

 “M’yes,” said James without much enthusiasm. 

 “But I fancy,” I added, “the life is not at all unpleasant.” 

 At this point embarrassment seemed to engulf James. He blushed, swallowed once or twice in a somewhat convulsive manner, and stammered. 

 Then he made his confession guiltily. 

 I was not to suppose that his aims ceased with the attainment of a tomato-farm. The nurture of a wholesome vegetable occupied neither the whole of his ambitions nor even the greater part of them. To write—the agony with which he throatily confessed it!—to be swept into the maelstrom of literary journalism, to be en rapport with the unslumbering forces of Fleet Street—those were the real objectives of James Orlebar Cloyster. 

 “Of course, I mean,” he said, “I suppose it would be a bit of a struggle at first, if you see what I mean. What I mean to say is, rejected manuscripts, and so on. But still, after a bit, once get a footing, you know—I should like to have a dash at it. I mean, I think I could do something, you know.” 

 “Of course you could,” I said. 

 “I mean, lots of men have, don’t you know.” 

 “There’s plenty of room at the top,” I said. 

 He seemed struck with this remark. It encouraged him. 

 He had had his opportunity of talking thus of himself during our long rambles out of doors. They were a series of excursions which he was accustomed to describe as hunting expeditions for the stocking of our larder. 

 Thus James would announce at breakfast that prawns were the day’s quarry, and the foreshore round Cobo Bay the hunting-ground. And to Cobo, accordingly, we would set out. This prawn-yielding area extends along the coast on the other side of St. Peter’s Port, where two halts had to be made, one at Madame Garnier’s, the 

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