trail of this loathsome condiment upon the path trodden every afternoon by
my rat.

He came as usual on the day after that on which I had basely planned his
murder--Heaven forgive me!--that I might escape a trifling fine, and he
deigned to partake of my hospitality. Twenty-four hours later, when duty
summoned him once more at the hour of tea, his eye was dim and he staggered
slightly in his gait. He was still able to go his rounds, but since that
tragic afternoon I have seen him no more.

My family eyes me with suspicion. They look for the rat, which no longer
arrives at his accustomed hour. My cook has given notice. I alone bear the
burden of the fatal secret.

* * * * *

Saved! What care I for five paltry pounds now that our rat has recovered
from his indisposition and has hastened to re-visit his property? The
phosphor paste, like arsenic, has added brightness to his eye and brought a
beautiful lustre to his smooth brown coat. He has softened in his manner
and tends towards friendship. There is less of the grand air, less
assertion of the vast gap which yawns between the landlord and the tenant.
Presently, if I continue to prove worthy of his condescension, my rat will
eat phosphor paste out of my hand.

* * * * *

[Illustration: _Jack_ (_to novice in difficulties with the tide_). "THE
NEXT TIME YOU SPORTSMEN TAKES AN OUTIN' TRY A NUMBER TWENTY-SEVEN BUS."]