[Illustration]
DASH BLANK was a genius. He had been an immense success at school,
and had done admirably at the University. He then came up to town and
tried many things. He was a poet, a musician, an artist, an inventor.
And everyone he knew, said it was absolutely wonderful, and that he
should make a fortune. But just at the moment he had a fair income,
which had been left to him by his deceased relative, and there was
no occasion to augment his means. On the contrary, if anything,
his accomplishments were rather a loss to him than a gain. So the
situation existed for a time.
Then came a crash in the City, and poor DASH BLANK found himself
penniless. It was then he tried to turn his talents to account, but
found that their market value was _nil_, or even less.
But, fortunately, he was "such a genius," and to persons of that class
often come what may be termed happy thoughts.
DASH BLANK disappeared--completely, absolutely. His absence remained
unnoticed for some time, and then, of a sudden, his death got into
the papers. It was copied from one journal to another, until the
intelligence was conveyed from one end of the Empire to the other.
Then some one made the discovery that DASH BLANK had not been
appreciated. Immediately all his brilliant failures were unearthed,
and advertised into popularity. His poems on republication realised
hundreds, and his pictures thousands; his wonderful invention was
patented, turned into a Company of Limited Liability, and quickly
realised a fortune. DASH BLANK was a name to conjure with--it was
typical of success.
At length a statue was erected to his memory, and the unveiling became
an important function. All sorts of smart people were present, and the
finest things imaginable were said about his career. When it was all
over, the Sculptor was left alone with what had been recently termed
his "masterpiece."
"No," said he; "it is not a bit like poor DASH. I never could get his
expression."
"It's not bad," observed a man in a cloak, who had come up while
he was murmuring, and who now stood beside him; "not at all bad,
considering he never gave you a sitting."
"That's true enough," replied the Sculptor; "but how did you know it?"
"Because I happen to be DASH BLANK himself!" and then the man in the
cloak threw off that covering, and revealed his identity.
After this came an explanation. The genius noticing that when a clever
man dies there is always a run upon his works, died himself. At any
rate that was the impression in the minds of everyone save a friendly
executor, who collected the money for his estate. Then the friendly
executor paid the proceeds to the imaginary deceased.
"And shall you resume work?" asked the Sculptor, after he had
recovered from his astonishment.
"Not I. You need be under no alarm that anyone will compare your
portrait with the original. I have had enough of work, and with my
recently accumulated capital, shall try my hand at speculation. Good
bye, if you are in my neighbourhood, look me up. You will find me
anywhere between the Arctic and Antarctic Zones." And then he went
over to America, put his money into wooden nutmegs, and promptly
became a millionaire.
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