easy-chair, limp like a wet rag, his glazed eyes fixed upon the hideous caricature. He did not know me at first, but gazed round in a dazed way, and asked for a soda and brandy. Then he gradually came to, and we sat staring hopelessly at each other.
"Limp like a wet rag."
"Cruel!" was all he could murmur for some time.
"What shall you do?" I asked, taking his hand in mine.
"I don't know. It is a terrific blow. I am not used to it. I am not prepared to be caricatured. It never, never struck me that the thing was possible, you know—didn't know it could be done. Why—hang it—I'm a caricaturist!"
He had no heart for his work, poor fellow; he had to knock off and go round to the club and have seven whisky-and-sodas.
The occurrence sent a chill of apprehension through the whole caricaturist profession. The caricaturists met at the clubs, and in the studios, and whispered apprehensively in knots; they began to grow pale and worn, and a cloud seemed to hover over their spirits. Then next week came out the second number of The Retaliator, containing a cartoon of another eminent caricaturist, even more crushing than the former one. Every point about its victim was exaggerated to a pitch that numbed the observer with horror; the ignorant public began to snigger at the expense of the profession; and every member of the latter knew that his fate was sealed—that, sooner or later, his turn was to come. The profession was disorganised and demoralised; the graphic and satiric pencil vibrated in the nerveless hand of the comic artist, or dropped helplessly from it.
"The caricaturists whispered apprehensively."
Actions for libel were wildly talked of in cartoonist circles—actions for libel—tort—breach of promise—anything.
All this while, at all times of the day and night, in all places likely or unlikely, under all circumstances, mysterious and gliding figures were to be dimly seen, sketch-book in hand, dogging the footsteps of the caricaturists, studying their gait manner and habits. On all sorts of pre-
