citizens. And, best of all, there were the Lambs', the Players', the Friars', the Coffee-House, the Pen-and-Ink, and the other resorts of the artist, the author, the actor, and the Bohemian. It was in these that Archie spent most of his time, and it was here that he made the acquaintance of J. B. Wheeler, the popular illustrator.
To Mr. Wheeler, over a friendly lunch, Archie had been confiding some of his ambitions to qualify as the hero of one of the Get-on-or-get-out-young-man-step-lively-books.
"You want a job?" said Mr. Wheeler.
"I want a job," said Archie.
Mr. Wheeler consumed eight fried potatoes in quick succession. He was an able trencherman,
"I always looked on you as one of our leading lilies of the field," he said. "Why this anxiety to toil and spin?"
"Well, my wife, you know, seems to think it might put me one up with the jolly old dad if I did something."
"And you're not particular what you do, so long as it has the outer aspect of work?"
"Anything in the world, laddie, anything in the world."
"Then come and pose for a picture I'm doing," said J. B. Wheeler. "It's for a magazine cover. You're just the model I want, and I'll pay you at the usual rates. Is it a go?"
"Pose?"
"You've only got to stand still and look like a chunk of wood. You can do that, surely?"
"I can do that," said Archie.
"Then come along down to my studio to-morrow."
"Right-o!" said Archie.
