But, of course, it may not
be true."
"Wish I was a soap man and had got advertisements to give away,"
sighed the Babe.
"Wish you were," agreed the sub-editor.
"You should have them all, Tommy."
"My name," corrected him the sub-editor, "is Miss Hope."
"I beg your pardon," said the Babe. "I don't know how it is, but
one gets into the way of calling you Tommy."
"I will thank you," said the sub-editor, "to get out of it."
"I am sorry," said the Babe.
"Don't let it occur again," said the sub-editor.
The Babe stood first on one leg and then on the other, but nothing
seemed to come of it. "Well," said the Babe, "I just looked in,
that's all. Nothing I can do for you?"
"Nothing," thanked him the sub-editor.
"Good morning," said the Babe.
"Good morning," said the sub-editor.
The childlike face of the Babe wore a chastened expression as it
slowly descended the stairs. Most of the members of the Autolycus
Club looked in about once a day to see if they could do anything
for Tommy. Some of them had luck. Only the day before, Porson--a
heavy, most uninteresting man--had been sent down all the way to
Plaistow to inquire after the wounded hand of a machine-boy. Young
Alexander, whose poetry some people could not even understand, had
been commissioned to search London for a second-hand edition of
Maitland's Architecture.
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