Rudyard Kipling 211 you going to do anything, sir?” “Pll pay my rent and messing. Isn’t that enough?” “I wasn’t doubting for a moment that you couldn’t pay your way, sir; but I ’ave often said to my wife, ‘It’s ‘ard on ’im because it isn’t as if he was an old man, nor yet a middle-aged one, but quite a young gentleman. That’s where it comes so ’ard.”” “I suppose so,” said Dick, absently. This particular nerve through long battering had ceased to feel — much. “I was thinking,” continued Mr. Beeton, still making as if to go, “that you might like to hear my boy Alf read you the papers sometimes of an evening. He do read beautiful, seeing he’s only nine.” “T should be very grateful,” said Dick. “Only let me make it worth his while.” “We wasn't thinking of that, sir, but of course it’s in your own ‘ands; but only to ear Alf sing “A Boy’s best Friend is *is Mother!’ Ah!” “Til hear him sing that too. Let him come this evening with the newspapers.” Alf was not a nice child, being puffed up with many school-board certificates for good conduct, and inordinately proud of his singing. Mr. Beeton remained, beaming, while the child wailed his way through a song of some eight eight-line verses in the usual whine of a young Cockney, and, after compliments, left him to read Dick the foreign telegrams. Ten minutes later Alf returned to his parents rather pale and scared. “E said ’e couldn’t stand it no more,” he explained. “He never said you read badly, Alf?” Mrs. Beeton spoke. “No. ’E said I read beautiful. Said ’e never ’eard any one read like that, but ’e said ’e couldn’t abide the stuff in the papers.” “P’raps he’s lost some money in the Stocks. Were you