Edgar Jepson

“ With this sixty pounds and perhaps another forty earned by writing, he had struggled on for nineteen months, only to find himself at the end of them on the bank of the Serpentine at four in the morning, with empty pockets and the hunger of a winter wolf.
“So, you see, I've made a howling mess of it,” he said at the end of his story.
“Why don't you go back to your schoolmastering?” asked the prince, who had listened to him with genuine interest.
Thelsmere shook his head. “No,” he said firmly. “Like most people who write, I've become a confirmed gambler. ”

“ The prince led his new acquaintance into the dining room, where the table was set with a simple supper.
“I'm going to give you two biscuits and no more for the moment,” he said. “Then, I think, after a hot bath and a change of linen, you might safely have something more substantial in the way of food. I believe a little food to begin with is the proper treatment for real hunger. I read it in a book.”
“Then it must be true—though painful,” said Thelsmere, gazing wolfishly at the cold chicken. ”

“ They went on slowly for about fifty yards; then the prince began:
“By the way, Mr.——”
“Thelsmere—John Thelsmere.”
“My name is Stuart—John Stuart—the same unlucky Christian name. I've read in a book that tobacco is helpful to still the pangs of hunger. Do you think a cigarette or a cigar——”
“I believe a cigarette would make another man of me,” said the young man eagerly. “I haven't smoked for three days.”
The prince gave him a cigarette. He lighted it, inhaled deeply, and breathed out the smoke slowly.
“What a cigarette!” he exclaimed. “The last I smoked were wicked woodbines.” ”