For a suitable fee he is prepared to attribute his success to anything in reason, and his confession of faith can count upon a place in every full-page advertisement of the mixture, and frequently in the odd half-columns.  I never quite understand why a tonic which has tightened up Mandragon’s fibres, or a Mind-Training System which has brought General Blank’s intellect to its present pitch, should be accepted more greedily by the man-in-the-street than a remedy which has only proved its value in the case of his undistinguished neighbour, but then I can never understand quite a number of things.  However, that doesn’t matter.  All that matters at the moment is that Mr. Sidney Mandragon has now achieved glory.  Probably the papers have already pigeon-holed his obituary notice.  It is a pleasing thought.

A Problem in Ethics

Life is full of little problems, which arise suddenly and find one wholly unprepared with a solution.  For instance, you travel down to Wimbledon on the District Railway—­first-class, let us suppose, because it is your birthday.  On your arrival you find that you have lost your ticket.  Now, doubtless there is some sort of recognized business to be gone through which relieves you of the necessity of paying again.  You produce an affidavit of a terribly affirmative nature, together with your card and a testimonial from a beneficed member of the Church of England.  Or you conduct a genial correspondence with the traffic manager which spreads itself over six months.  To save yourself this bother you simply tell the collector that you haven’t a ticket and have come from Charing Cross.  Is it necessary to add “first-class”?

Of course one has a strong feeling that one ought to, but I think a still stronger feeling that one isn’t defrauding the railway company if one doesn’t. (I will try not to get so many “ones” into my next sentence.) For you may argue fairly that you established your right to travel first-class when you stepped into the carriage with your ticket—­and, it may be, had it examined therein by an inspector.  All that you want to do now is to establish your right to leave the Wimbledon platform for the purer air of the common.  And you can do this perfectly easily with a third-class ticket.

However, this is a problem which will only arise if you are careless with your property.  But however careful you are, it may happen to you at any moment that you become suddenly the owner of a shilling with a hole in it.

I am such an owner.  I entered into possession a week ago—­Heaven knows who played the thing off on me.  As soon as I made the discovery I went into a tobacconist’s and bought a box of matches.

“This,” he said, looking at me reproachfully, “is a shilling with a hole in it.”

“I know,” I said, “but it’s all right, thanks.  I don’t want to wear it any longer.  The fact is, Joanna has thrown me—­However, I needn’t go into that.”  He passed it back to me.