And then suddenly he knew that he was wrong; for he had discovered what it was which he had told himself not to forget ... what it was which he had indeed forgotten.

And suddenly the birds stopped singing and there was a bitter chill in the air.

And the sun went violently out.

. . . . . . .

He was wearing only half a pair of spats.

STORIES OF SUCCESSFUL LIVES

THE SOLICITOR

The office was at its busiest, for it was Friday afternoon.  John Blunt leant back in his comfortable chair and toyed with the key of the safe, while he tried to realize his new position.  He, John Blunt, was junior partner in the great London firm of Macnaughton, Macnaughton, Macnaughton, Macnaughton & Macnaughton!

He closed his eyes, and his thoughts wandered back to the day when he had first entered the doors of the firm as one of two hundred and seventy-eight applicants for the post of office-boy.  They had been interviewed in batches, and old Mr Sanderson, the senior partner, had taken the first batch.

“I like your face, my boy,” he had said heartily to John.

“And I like yours,” replied John, not to be outdone in politeness.

“Now I wonder if you can spell ’mortgage’?”

“One ’m’?” said John tentatively.

Mr Sanderson was delighted with the lad’s knowledge, and engaged him at once.

For three years John had done his duty faithfully.  During this time he had saved the firm more than once by his readiness—­particularly on one occasion, when he had called old Mr Sanderson’s attention to the fact that he had signed a letter to a firm of stockbrokers, “Your loving husband Macnaughton, Macnaughton, Macnaughton, Macnaughton & Macnaughton.”  Mr Sanderson, always a little absentminded, corrected the error, and promised the boy his articles.  Five years later John Blunt was a solicitor.

And now he was actually junior partner in the firm—­the firm of which it was said in the City, “If a man has Macnaughton, Macnaughton, Macnaughton, Macnaughton & Macnaughton behind him, he is all right.”  The City is always coining pithy little epigrams like this.

There was a knock at the door of the inquiry office and a prosperous-looking gentleman came in.

“Can I see Mr Macnaughton,” he said politely to the office-boy.

“There isn’t no Mr Macnaughton,” replied the latter.  “They all died years ago.”

“Well, well, can I see one of the partners?”

“You can’t see Mr Sanderson, because he’s having his lunch,” said the boy.  “Mr Thorpe hasn’t come back from lunch yet, Mr Peters has just gone out to lunch, Mr Williams is expected back from lunch every minute, Mr Gourlay went out to lunch an hour ago, Mr Beamish—­”

“Tut, tut, isn’t anybody in?”

“Mr Blunt is in,” said the boy, and took up the telephone.  “If you wait a moment I’ll see if he’s awake.”