X——; I met him at a circulating library t’other day.”

“Dr. X—— the writer, do you mean?” said Sir Philip; “then, damn me, we’d better get out of his way as fast as we can, or he’ll have some of us down in black and white; and curse me, if I should choose to meet with myself in a book.”

“No danger of that,” said Rochfort; “for how can one meet with oneself in a book, Sir Philip, if one never opens one?—By Jove, that’s the true way.”

“But, ’pon my honour,” said St. George, “I should like of all things to see myself in print; ’twould make one famously famous.”

“Damn me, if I don’t flatter myself, though, one can make oneself famous enough to all intents and purposes without having anything to say to these author geniuses. You’re a famous fellow, faith! to want to see yourself in print—I’ll publish this in Bond Street: damn it, in point of famousness, I’d sport my Random against all the books that ever were read or written, damn me! But what are we doing here?”

“Hervey’s in good hands,” said Rochfort, “and this here’s a cursed stupid lounge for us—besides, it’s getting towards dinner time; so my voice is, let’s be off, and we can leave St. George (who has such a famous mind to be in the doctor’s hook) to bring Clary after us, when he’s ready for dinner and good company again, you know—ha! ha! ha!”

Away the faithful friends went to the important business of their day.

When Clarence Hervey came to his senses he started up, rubbed his eyes, and looked about, exclaiming—“What’s all this?—Where am I?—Where’s Baddely?—Where’s Rochfort?—Where are they all?”

“Gone home to dinner,” answered Mr. St. George, who was a hanger-on of Sir Philip’s; “but they left me to bring you after them. Faith, Clary, you’ve had a squeak for your life! ’Pon my honour, we thought at one time it was all over with you—but you’re a rough one: we shan’t have to ‘pour over your grave a full bottle of red’ as yet, my boy—you’ll do as well as ever. So I’ll step and call a coach for you, Clary, and we shall be at dinner as soon as the best of ’em after all, by jingo! I leave you in good hands with the doctor here, that brought you to life, and the gentleman that dragged you out of the water. Here’s a note for you,” whispered Mr. St. George, as he leaned over Clarence Hervey—“here’s a note for you from Sir Philip and Rochfort: read it, do you mind, to yourself.”

“If I can,” said Clarence; “but Sir Philip writes a bloody bad hand.” [3]

“Oh, he’s a baronet,” said St. George, “ha! ha! ha!” and, charmed with his own wit, he left the boathouse.

Clarence with some difficulty deciphered the note, which contained these words:

“Quiz the doctor, Clary, as soon as you are up to it—he’s an author—so fair game—quiz the doctor, and we’ll drink your health with three times three in Rochfort’s burgundy.

“Yours, etc.

“Phil. Baddely.

“P.S. Burn this when read.”

With the request contained in the postscript Clarence immediately complied; he threw the note into the fire with indignation the moment that he had read it, and turning towards the gentleman to whom it alluded, he began to express, in the strongest terms, his gratitude for their benevolence. But he stopped short in the midst of his acknowledgments, when he discovered to whom he was speaking.

“Dr. X——!” cried he. “Is it possible? How rejoiced I am to see you, and how rejoiced I am to be obliged to you! There is not a man in England to whom I would rather be obliged.”

“You are not acquainted with Mr. Percival, I believe,” said Dr. X——: “give me leave, Mr. Percival, to introduce to you the young gentleman whose life you have saved, and whose life—though, by the company in which you found him, you might not think so—is worth saving. This, sir, is no less a man than Mr. Clarence Hervey, of whose universal genius you have just had a specimen; for which he was crowned with sedges, as he well deserved, by the god of the Serpentine river. Do not be so unjust as to imagine that he has any of the presumption which is sometimes the chief characteristic of a man of universal genius.