appearing; but when this source of excitement began a little to dry up, that Artist Fellow (of whom we wot), his appetite for praise quite unsated, began to make trouble and to demand that Dunkle be unmasked and honour be given where honour was due. The Archdeacon had the devil's own time with this person, who was just as conceited and avid of fame as is the next novelist you are going to meet. He wanted it to be known all over the world that it was he, not Dunkle, who had written that stupendous popular success, "Trixie." He didn't give a curse to be a bishop. The Pastor of Souls might talk himself cross-eyed; nothing he said had the smallest effect upon his associate, who simply repeated and repeated: "Well, all I know is, I wrote the book and I ought to have the credit of it, and the credit of it I propose to have."
