"
"And what is that?"
"Notoriety, sir."
"For what?"
"For anything that will serve to lift you out of the ruck--to set
you above the throng,--you must be one apart--an original."
"Originality is divine!" said Barnabas.
"More or less, sir," added Peterby, "for it is very easily achieved.
Lord Alvanly managed it with apricot tarts; Lord Petersham with
snuff-boxes; Mr. Mackinnon by his agility in climbing round
drawing-rooms on the furniture; Jockey of Norfolk by consuming a
vast number of beef-steaks, one after the other; Sir George Cassilis,
who was neither rich nor handsome nor witty, by being insolent; Sir
John Lade by dressing like a stagecoach-man, and driving like the
devil; Sir George Skeffington by inventing a new color and writing
bad plays; and I could name you many others beside--"
"Why then, Peterby--what of Sir Mortimer Carnaby?"
"He managed it by going into the ring with Jack Fearby, the 'Young
Ruffian,' and beating him in twenty-odd rounds for one thing, and
winning a cross-country race--"
"Ha!" exclaimed Barnabas, "a race!" and so he fell to staring up at
the ceiling again.
"But I fear, sir," continued Peterby, "that in making him your enemy,
you have damned your chances at the very outset, as I told you.
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