Next morning I seized the paper nervously. There was my name at the end of
a column and a half. I had begun.
I sat down to wait for the next step. It came with the mid-day post in a
letter from Saxby, who is--or was--my friend.
"Good old Tibbles," it ran; "I knew some juggins would rise, whatever I
wrote. But fancy landing you!--Yours ever, BEEFERS."
Now how _can_ a man save his country on a thing like that?
* * * * *