It may have been a fortnight later that I divined the secret of the writing-pad.  My wretch (it leaked out) wrote letters for a paper in the West, and had filled a part of one of them with descriptions of myself.  I pointed out to him that he had no right to do so without asking my permission.

“Why, this is just what I hoped!” he exclaimed.  “I thought you didn’t seem to catch on; only it seemed too good to be true.”

“But, my good fellow, you were bound to warn me,” I objected.

“I know it’s generally considered etiquette,” he admitted; “but between friends, and when it was only with a view of serving you, I thought it wouldn’t matter.  I wanted it (if possible) to come on you as a surprise; I wanted you just to waken, like Lord Byron, and find the papers full of you.  You must admit it was a natural thought.  And no man likes to boast of a favour beforehand.”

“But, heavens and earth! how do you know I think it a favour?” I cried.

He became immediately plunged in despair.  “You think it a liberty,” said he; “I see that.  I would rather have cut off my hand.  I would stop it now, only it’s too late; it’s published by now.  And I wrote it with so much pride and pleasure!”

I could think of nothing but how to console him.  “O, I daresay it’s all right,” said I.  “I know you meant it kindly, and you would be sure to do it in good taste.”

“That you may swear to,” he cried.  “It’s a pure, bright, A number 1 paper; the St. Jo Sunday Herald.  The idea of the series was quite my own; I interviewed the editor, put it to him straight; the freshness of the idea took him, and I walked out of that office with the contract in my pocket, and did my first Paris letter that evening in Saint Jo.  The editor did no more than glance his eye down the headlines.  ’You’re the man for us,’ said he.”

I was certainly far from reassured by this sketch of the class of literature in which I was to make my first appearance; but I said no more, and possessed my soul in patience, until the day came when I received a copy of a newspaper marked in the corner, “Compliments of J.P.”  I opened it with sensible shrinkings; and there, wedged between an account of a prize-fight and a skittish article upon chiropody—­think of chiropody treated with a leer!—­I came upon a column and a half in which myself and my poor statue were embalmed.  Like the editor with the first of the series, I did but glance my eye down the head-lines and was more than satisfied.

     Another of Pinkerton’s spicy chats.

     Art practitioners in Paris.

     MUSKEGON’S columned capitol.

     Son of millionaire Dodd,

     Patriot and artist.

     “He means to do better.”