09 Not George Washington

one’s back against the wall.

Then there was Briggs, the actor. The very thought of him was a tonic. A born fighter, with the energy of six men, he was an ideal model for me. If I could work with a sixth of his dash and pluck, I should be safe. He was giving me work. He might give me more. The new edition of the Belle of Wells was due in another fortnight. My lyrics would be used, and I should get paid for them. Add this to my Orb salary, and I should be a man of substance.

I glared over my coffee-cup at an imaginary John Hatton.

“You thought you’d done me, did you?” I said to him. “By Gad! I’ll have the laugh of you all yet.”

I was shaking my fist at him when the door opened. I hurriedly tilted back my chair, and looked out of the window.

“Hullo, Cloyster.”

I looked round. It was Fermin. Just the man I wanted to see.

He seemed depressed. Even embarrassed.

“How’s the column?” I asked.

“Oh, all right,” he said awkwardly. “I wanted to see you about that. I was going to write to you.”

“Oh, yes,” I said, “of course. About the holiday work. When are you off?”

“I was thinking of starting next week.”

“Good. Sorry to lose you, of course, but–-“

He shuffled his feet.

“You’re doing pretty well now at the game, aren’t you, Cloyster?” he said.

It was not to my interests to cry myself down, so I said that I was doing quite decently. He seemed relieved.

“You’re making quite a good income, I suppose? I mean, no difficulty about placing your stuff?”

“Editors squeal for it.”

“Because, otherwise what I wanted to say to you might have been something of a blow. But it won’t affect you much if you’re doing plenty of work elsewhere.”

A cold hand seemed laid upon my heart. My mind leaped to what he meant. Something had gone wrong with the Orb holiday work, my sheet-anchor.

“Do you remember writing a par about Stickney, the butter-scotch man, you know, ragging him when he got his peerage?”

“Yes.”

It was one of the best paragraphs I had ever done. A two-line thing, full of point and sting. I had been editing “On Your Way” that day, Fermin being on a holiday and Gresham ill; and I had put the paragraph conspicuously at the top of the column.

“Well,” said Fermin, “I’m afraid there was rather trouble about it. Hamilton came into our room yesterday, and asked if I should be seeing you. I said I thought I should. ‘Well, tell him,’ said Hamilton, ‘that that paragraph of his about Stickney has only cost us five hundred pounds. That’s all.’ And he went out again. Apparently Stickney was on the point of advertising largely with the Orb, and had backed out in a huff. Today, I went to see him about my holiday, and he wanted to know who was coming in to do my work. I mentioned you, and he absolutely refused to have you in. I’m awfully sorry about it.”

I was silent. The shock was too great. Instead of drifting easily into my struggle on a comfortable weekly salary, I should have to start the tooth-and-nail fighting at once. I wanted to get away somewhere by myself, and grapple with the position.

I said good-bye to Fermin, retaining sufficient presence of mind to treat the thing lightly, and walked swiftly along the restless Strand, marvelling at what I had suffered at the hands of Fortune. The deceiver of Margaret, deceived by Eva, a pauper! I covered the distance between Groom’s and Walpole Street in sombre meditation.

In a sort of dull panic I sat down immediately on my arrival, and tried to work. I told myself that I must turn out something, that it would be madness to waste a moment.

I sat and chewed my pen from two o’clock till five, but not a page of printable stuff could I turn out. Looking back at myself at that moment, I am not surprised that my ideas did not flow. It would have been a wonderful triumph of strength of mind if I had been able to write after all that had happened. Dr. Johnson has laid it down that a man can write at any time, if he sets himself to it earnestly; but mine were exceptional circumstances. My life’s happiness and my means for supporting life at all, happy or otherwise, had been swept away in a single morning; and I found myself utterly unable to pen a coherent sentence.

At five o’clock I gave up the struggle, and rang for tea.

While I was having tea there was a ring at the bell, and my landlady brought in a large parcel.

I recognised the writing on the label. The hand was Margaret’s. I wondered in an impersonal sort of way what Margaret could be sending to me. From the feel of it the contents were paper.

It amuses me now to think that it was a good half-hour before I took the trouble to cut the string. Fortune and happiness were waiting for me in that parcel, and I would not bother to open it. I sat in my chair, smoking and thinking, and occasionally cast a gloomy eye at the parcel. But I did not open it. Then my pipe went out, and I found that I had no matches in my pocket. There were some at the farther end of the mantelpiece. I had to get up to reach them, and, once up, I found myself filled with a sufficient amount of energy to take a knife from the table and cut the string.

Languidly I undid the brown paper. The contents were a pile of typewritten pages and a letter.

It was the letter over which my glassy eyes travelled first.