“What is it?” questioned Peter—“something to drink?”

“It’s a sort of port,” explained Clodd, “that doesn’t get into your head.”

“You consider that an advantage?” queried Peter.

“Of course. You can drink more of it.”

Peter continued to write: ‘Possesses all the qualities of an old vintage port, without those deleterious properties——’ “I haven’t tasted it, Clodd,” hinted Peter.

“That’s all right—I have.”

“And was it good?”

“Splendid stuff. Say it’s ‘delicious and invigorating.’ They’ll be sure to quote that.”

Peter wrote on: ‘Personally I have found it delicious and——’ Peter left off writing. “I really think, Clodd, I ought to taste it. You see, I am personally recommending it.”

“Finish that par. Let me have it to take round to the printers. Then put the bottle in your pocket. Take it home and make a night of it.”

Clodd appeared to be in a mighty hurry. Now, this made Peter only the more suspicious. The bottle was close to his hand. Clodd tried to intercept him, but was not quick enough.

“You’re not used to temperance drinks,” urged Clodd. “Your palate is not accustomed to them.”

“I can tell whether it’s ‘delicious’ or not, surely?” pleaded Peter, who had pulled out the cork.

“It’s a quarter-page advertisement for thirteen weeks. Put it down and don’t be a fool!” urged Clodd.

“I’m going to put it down,” laughed Peter, who was fond of his joke. Peter poured out half a tumblerful, and drank—some of it.

“Like it?” demanded Clodd, with a savage grin.

“You are sure—you are sure it was the right bottle?” gasped Peter.

“Bottle’s all right,” Clodd assured him. “Try some more. Judge it fairly.”

Peter ventured on another sip. “You don’t think they would be satisfied if I recommended it as a medicine?” insinuated Peter—“something to have about the house in case of accidental poisoning?”

“Better go round and suggest the idea to them yourself. I’ve done with it.” Clodd took up his hat.

“I’m sorry—I’m very sorry,” sighed Peter. “But I couldn’t conscientiously——”

Clodd put down his hat again with a bang. “Oh! confound that conscience of yours! Don’t it ever think of your creditors? What’s the use of my working out my lungs for you, when all you do is to hamper me at every step?”

“Wouldn’t it be better policy,” urged Peter, “to go for the better class of advertiser, who doesn’t ask you for this sort of thing?”

“Go for him!” snorted Clodd. “Do you think I don’t go for him? They are just sheep. Get one, you get the lot. Until you’ve got the one, the others won’t listen to you.”