[Illustration: THE PROFESSOR, IN HIS CAGE, INTENDED TO STUDY THE
LANGUAGE OF MONKEYS. BUT, WHEN THE KETTLE UPSET, THE MONKEYS HAD AN
OPPORTUNITY OF STUDYING THE LANGUAGE OF PROFESSORS.]

* * * * *

THE LAST OF HIS RACE.

IT is interesting, though ill-mannered, to watch other people at a
railway bookstall and guess their choice of literature from their
outward appearance.

Had you pursued this diversion, however, in the case of Mr. Harringay
Jones as he stood before the bookstall at Paddington, you would, I
fear, have been far out in your conjecture. For Mr. Jones, who had the
indeterminate baldheadedness of the bank cashier and might have been
anything from thirty-five to sixty, did not purchase a volume
of essays or a political autobiography, but selected a flaming
one-and-sixpenny narrative of spy hunts and secret service intrigue.

Still, how could you have guessed that Mr. Jones's placid countenance
and rotund frame concealed an imagination that was almost boyish in
its unsatisfied craving for adventure? Humdrum year had succeeded
humdrum year, yet he had never despaired. Some day would come that
great moment when the limelight of the world's wonder would centre on
him, and he would hold the stage alone.

But till its arrival he consoled himself with literature and found
vicarious enjoyment in the deeds of others. As long as his imagination
could grow lean in its search for treasure amid Alaskan snows, he