50 The Light That Failed show him your diggings?” “Surely.” And Dick departed, to take counsel with himself in the rapidly gathering London fog. Half an hour after he had left, the Nilghai labored up the staircase. He was the chiefest, as he was the youngest, of the war correspondents, and his expertences dated from the birth of the needle-gun. Saving only his ally, Keneu the Great War Eagle, there was no man higher in the craft than he, and he always opened his conversation with the news that there would be trouble in the Balkans in the spring. Torpenhow laughed as he entered. “Never mind the trouble in the Balkans. Those little states are always screeching. You’ve heard about Dick’s luck?” “Yes; he has been called up to notoriety, hasn’t he? I hope you keep him properly humble. He wants suppressing from time to time.” “He does. He’s beginning to take liberties with what he thinks is his reputation.” “Already! By Jove, he has cheek! I don’t know about his reputation, but he’ll come a cropper if he tries that sort of thing.” “So I told him. I don’t think he believes it.” “They never do when they first start off. What’s that wreck on the ground there?” “Specimen of his latest impertinence.” Torpenhow thrust the torn edges of the canvas together and showed the well-groomed picture to the Nilghai, who looked at it for a moment and whistled. “It’s a chromo,” said he, — “a chromo-litholeomargarine fake! What possessed him to do it? And yet how thoroughly he has caught the note that catches a public who think with their boots and read with their elbows! The cold-blooded insolence of the work almost saves it; but he mustn’t go on with this. Hasn’t he been