Banner of the People Office,
   3rd August, 186—.

   MY DEAR FINN,

I must say I think you have treated me badly, and without that sort of brotherly fairness which we on the public press expect from one another.  However, perhaps we can come to an understanding, and if so, things may yet go smoothly.  Give me a turn and I am not at all adverse to give you one.  Will you come to me here, or shall I call upon you?

   Yours always, Q. S.

Phineas was not only surprised, but disgusted also, at the receipt of this letter.  He could not imagine what was the deed by which he had offended Mr. Slide.  He thought over all the circumstances of his short connection with the People’s Banner, but could remember nothing which might have created offence.  But his disgust was greater than his surprise.  He thought that he had done nothing and said nothing to justify Quintus Slide in calling him “dear Finn.”  He, who had Lady Laura’s secret in his keeping; he who hoped to be the possessor of Violet Effingham’s affections,—­he to be called “dear Finn” by such a one as Quintus Slide!  He soon made up his mind that he would not answer the note, but would go at once to the People’s Banner office at the hour at which Quintus Slide was always there.  He certainly would not write to “dear Slide;” and, until he had heard something more of this cause of offence, he would not make an enemy for ever by calling the man “dear Sir.”  He went to the office of the People’s Banner, and found Mr. Slide ensconced in a little glass cupboard, writing an article for the next day’s copy.

“I suppose you’re very busy,” said Phineas, inserting himself with some difficulty on to a little stool in the corner of the cupboard.

“Not so particular but what I’m glad to see you.  You shoot, don’t you?”

“Shoot!” said Phineas.  It could not be possible that Mr. Slide was intending, after this abrupt fashion, to propose a duel with pistols.

“Grouse and pheasants, and them sort of things?” asked Mr. Slide.

“Oh, ah; I understand.  Yes, I shoot sometimes.”

“Is it the 12th or 20th for grouse in Scotland?”

“The 12th,” said Phineas.  “What makes you ask that just now?”

“I’m doing a letter about it,—­advising men not to shoot too many of the young birds, and showing that they’ll have none next year if they do.  I had a fellow here just now who knew all about it, and he put down a lot; but I forgot to make him tell me the day of beginning.  What’s a good place to date from?”

Phineas suggested Callender or Stirling.

“Stirling’s too much of a town, isn’t it?  Callender sounds better for game, I think.”

So the letter which was to save the young grouse was dated from Callender; and Mr. Quintus Slide having written the word, threw down his pen, came off his stool, and rushed at once at his subject.