ENGLAND, THEIR ENGLAND
CHAPTER III
Donald Cameron had no qualifications for any profession except the ability to drive a moderately crooked furrow and to direct the fire of a six-gun battery of eighteen-pounder guns, and so he resolved to try his fortune as a journalist. There seemed to be no other profession which required neither ability nor training. He was fortified in this resolution by the fact that his letters of introduction from the lecturer and the librarian were all addressed to literary men, the former having several times corresponded with editors about rejected articles and the latter being a member of the Librarians' Association, a body that occasionally came into touch with those who write books as well as those who read them.
But the double set of introductions led to a small difficulty at 7.30 on the morning of the day when the Aberdeen express drew up at King's Cross station and decanted a tousled and sleepy Donald from his third-class corner. For the lecturer in Italian had warmly recommended Chelsea as the only possible region in which a literary man could live, whereas the librarian had repeatedly affirmed that no one who was anyone lived further away from the British Museum than an average athlete at the Aboyne Games could throw a stone. Donald's own experience of London consisted of an intimate knowledge of Reggiori's restaurant opposite King's Cross station, the few hundred yards between the Palace Theatre and the Piccadilly Hotel, and the leave-train platforms of Victoria Station; and in consequence Chelsea and Bloomsbury were all one to him, both as residential districts and as Movements in Art. To him Chelsea was "the Quartier Latin of London," and as for Bloomsbury, he had heard of Virginia Woolf but not of Miss Sackville-West.
It was the spin of a coin upon the arrival platform of the London and North-Eastern Railway's terminus that directed his taxi in the direction of Chelsea, and by tea-time of the same afternoon Donald was installed in a bed-sitting-room on the second floor of a Carolean house in Royal Avenue, just off the King's Road. The landlady was an elderly dame with a roving eye, who looked as if she had had her fling in her day, forty years before. Her daughter also had a roving eye, and looked as if she was ready to have a fling at any moment. Her name was Gwladys and she terrified Donald. She was tall and ladylike and full of little ways. Every morning Donald met her at the door of the bathroom, for his descent, at whatever hour he made it, invariably seemed to coincide with her entrance or exit—screaming modestly in a flurry of pink dressing-gown and lace-topped nightgown. And often when he was going upstairs to bed he would meet Gwladys on the stairs, and she would tell him all about her fiancé, a naval commander who was killed at Jutland and who was very fond of port wine. Donald shyly sympathized with her loss and put forward the opinion, nervously, that port wine was infinitely preferable to Jutland. Gwladys' view was that in any case the present was better than the past.
Donald's first letter of introduction was to the literary editor of a well-known weekly paper which had leanings towards a mild form of intellectual Socialism. No one would have been more alarmed and bewildered than the literary editor if a sudden swing of the political pendulum had brought about the nationalization of the Means of Production, Distribution, and Exchange which his newspaper so elegantly advocated. For the literary editor was an Irishman who, if he despised money and made very lethargic and intermittent efforts to acquire any, nevertheless was heartily fond of many of the things which money can buy. He was a brilliant critic, a vile editor, and a superb luncher-out. He went to a lunch-party every day of the week, was always the first to arrive and the last to leave, and was always welcome. For his conversation was not only easy, witty, learned, universal; it was enchanting as well. The man radiated charm. Charm was his capital and conversation his income, and both were inexhaustible. His name was Charles Ossory.
Donald presented his letter of introduction to Mr. Ossory's secretary, a small, dark lady of incredible sharpness and efficiency, one afternoon at 3 P.M., and the sharp little lady examined him briefly and explained that Mr. Ossory was out. She added that she had full authority to make appointments for Mr. Ossory, and that if Mr. Cameron cared to come along at 4.30 on the following afternoon, Tuesday, it was possible that Mr. Ossory might by that time have come back from his lunch.
"From his tea," corrected Donald mildly.
"From his lunch," snapped the sharp little lady, and she turned to a gigantic card-index in a way that suggested only too plainly that the conversation was over. On the Tuesday afternoon Donald presented himself nervously at the dragonlet's den and waited until, an hour later, the butler of a Dowager Marchioness telephoned to say that Mr. Ossory was not going to return to his Bureau that day.
On the Wednesday afternoon it was the lady secretary of a Cabinet Minister's wife who did the telephoning, only she called it "his department," and on the Thursday it was a Countess whose quarterings were unimpeachable but whose income did not run to a telephonic intermediary, and so had to do it herself. On Friday Mr. Ossory went away for his usual week-end, returning on Tuesday just in time not to go to the office, and it was only by chance that a hasty visit on the Wednesday afternoon, to correct the proofs of a wise and witty article about Molière, happened to coincide with one of Donald's vigils. Charles Ossory came into the office in a great hurry and stayed, talking to Donald enchantingly, for an hour and a half, his eyes twinkling away and his lovely sentences tumbling out in his lovely soft voice. He was no longer in a hurry. His engagements were forgotten. In vain did the dragonlet dart in and out of the office, ordering him either to correct his proof or to go to Whitehall Gardens to have tea with Mr. Bernard Shaw. Mr. Ossory, with enchanting blandness, refused to do either, and Donald thought it was the most flattering thing that had ever come his way. But that was all from Mr. Ossory that did come his way, except the task of compiling a list of autumn novels for a book-supplement of the mildly Socialistic weekly, for which he received three guineas; that, and a piece of information. For Mr. Ossory told him, in his soft lovely voice, that the literary profession was grotesquely overcrowded, and that it was only possible for men of exceptional talent to enter it, and then only if they had been already in the profession for years. Unless they had been in it for years, he pointed out, how could they show their exceptional talent?
It says a great deal for Mr. Ossory's charm that he made this sound quite reasonable, and it was not until Donald had returned home to Royal Avenue and pondered deeply over the position that he decided to give up Mr. Ossory as a potential Maecenas and to try his second letter of introduction.
This was from the librarian of King's College Library, and was addressed to Mr. Alexander Ogilvy, LL.D. of St. Andrews University, and editor of the Illustrated Planet. Mr. Ogilvy's business habits were different, apparently, from those of Mr. Ossory, for he made an appointment with Donald for 8.30 A.M., and at 8.31 A.M. received his visitor. 8.31 A.M. is a difficult time of the day for any but the hardiest of spirits, and Donald's shyness was even more overpowering at that hour than later on. He had breakfasted much too early, so as not to be late for the appointment, and he had spent a cold half-hour in a dark, stone-flagged waiting-room at the office of the Illustrated Planet between 8 o'clock and half-past, his courage sinking with his temperature, and a hungry feeling competing with a nervous feeling for supremacy in the neighbourhood of his lower waistcoat buttons. The sudden jarring of the electric bell at one minute past the hour of the appointment came like the whistles of the platoon commander at zero hour, and his eyes were all blurred when he shambled through a glass door into the presence of the great Mr. Ogilvy.
When the haze had cleared away, he saw that an extraordinary person was staring at him from a distance of about three feet. Mr. Ogilvy was a small man—a very small man—and he had an enormous head. Seated at his office table, he looked like an eccentric giant who preferred to sit upon the floor so that only his head appeared above the polished surface, for there was little of Mr. Ogilvy visible except this mammoth cranium. But when he jumped up smartly and held out his hand, his full length of about five feet—four feet of which were body and legs, and one of which was head, became apparent. Donald sat down opposite him and an embarrassing silence followed. Donald glanced round the room, looked at the floor, his finger-nails, the shiny top of the table, and finally shot a furtive glance at Mr. Ogilvy. This glance gave him a profound surprise, for he had imagined at first that the hugeness of the little man's head was his most important feature. Now he saw that this was wrong, for the giant skull, dwarfing as it did the four-foot body, was itself dwarfed by a chin that was shaped like a Spanish spade-beard, like the front end of a torpedo boat photographed in a dry dock, like an instrument for bashing in the gates of mediaeval cities. It was a regular Cyrano among chins, and the little man was evidently as conscious of his panache as the Gascon was of his. For as he looked at Donald during the embarrassing silence, he thrust it forward in a rather menacing way, just like the pictures of the mythical Captain Kettle. Donald, by now a-twitter with nervous palpitations, wondered if the little man's first words would be a rasping command to Marshal Soult to attack the Russian centre, or a single word which would unleash the Old Guard up the slopes of St. Jean. As it was, Mr Ogilvy's first words were unintelligible.
"Erracht, Mamore, or Fassifern?" he barked.
Donald started, and swept a large glass inkbottle to the floor, where it shivered into ten thousand splinters and flung its blue-black contents into every corner of the room. Mumbling apologies and perspiring freely, for the cold feeling had been suddenly superseded by intense heat, Donald fell on his knees, upsetting his chair with a clatter, and started to mop up the flood with his handkerchief. Somewhere in the distance, about two miles away, the electric bell rang again, and an office-boy, miraculously covering the two miles in a second or so, appeared with mop and brush and pan, and Donald, purple in the face and blue-black on the hands, reseated himself on his righted chair.
Mr. Ogilvy waved away his apologies, and Donald perceived that there was a kindly look in his eyes and a gentle tone in his voice which did not harmonize with the terrific aspect of his chin.
"I was asking you," said Mr. Ogilvy, in a very broad Lanarkshire accent, "to what branch of the Clan Cameron you belonged?"
"I—I don't know exactly," stammered Donald. Mr. Ogilvy's kindly expression vanished and the Austerlitz manner reasserted itself.
"It's a poor Highlander who doesn't know his own chieftain," he observed coldly.
The blood ran to Donald's forehead at this, and he astonished himself by replying sharply, "We have no chieftain. Lochiel's our chief."
Mr. Ogilvy lay back in his chair and smiled a friendly smile; his huge head nodding up and down slowly, as if it was afraid of overstraining the neck by which it was precariously supported.
"All right, Mr. Cameron—all right, all right. I'm not so gyte as to ask questions that need not be answered. Do you know what 'gyte' means?"
"N-no."
"Where are you from, Mr. Cameron?"
"Balspindie, in Buchan."
Mr. Ogilvy pulled out a vast scrap-album from a shelf of vast scrap-albums and examined it attentively. Then he said:
"Was Ewan Cameron your father?"
"Yes."
"Ah! Then your mother was a Gordon from the family of William Gordon of Kinaldie? And William Gordon married an Allardyce who was the second cousin of the first wife of one of the Macleods of Assint? Let me see. Your father's father married a Kennedy from the region of Drumnadrochit, and she was half-sister to one of the Laggan Grants, the one who was drowned, you remember, in the great storm on Loch Lochy. Dear me! that's very interesting. And his father—your great-grandfather, Mr. Cameron, was believed to have been born during or just after the rebellion——"
"The what!" exclaimed Donald, starting up.
"I beg your pardon, Mr. Cameron. I profoundly beg your pardon. I should have said the Forty-Five. And that's all that is known about your family, except that your great-aunt Mary, who married a Fraser from Strathcarron, was so proud of her beautiful voice that she used to go to Mass late, in order that the congregation might notice the difference between the singing before and after her arrival."
Mr. Ogilvy closed the big album with a bang, just saving his chin from being caught by the clashing covers like the Argo escaping the Symplegades, and carefully replaced it on its shelf. Then he turned back to Donald and said:
"Well, Mr. Cameron, and my good friend Mr. Greig of the College Library tells me that you want to enter upon a literary career."
Donald squirmed on his seat. The phrase "a literary career" seemed to make him out to be a pretentious prig, especially when it was endowed by the Lanarkshire accent with more r's than appeared phonetically possible. He had come south to try to support himself by "writing," a much simpler and homelier ambition than the carving of literary careers. Mr. Ogilvy went on.
"Mr. Greig says that he is sure you have all the makings of a literary man."
Donald squirmed again. Mr. Greig was a high-falutin ass. But Mr. Ogilvy's next words brought things to earth again.
"Well, maybe you have and maybe you haven't," he went on drily. "But there are two ways of finding out. Either go home and write something good—if it's good it will be published. There's a notion that publishers neglect good writers. They don't. They know their job. Either do that, or start in as a journalist."
"That was my idea," murmured Donald.
"Very good. Then you must try and get a job on a paper."
"I thought of free-lancing," said Donald, his voice sinking almost to a mumble. Again there was something priggish about the word "free-lancing," an affectation of romantic, individualist dash, like a captain of Free Companies or a cavalry leader.
"Very good," said Mr. Ogilvy decisively. "Free-lance and starve. Get a job and live. That's the rule in Fleet Street. Don't go and be silly. Now, I've been asked to find a man—an apprentice—for a paper, and if you like you can have the job. It'll be a good start for you."
Donald opened his eyes. To stumble upon a journalistic job within the first few weeks of coming to London was an amazing bit of luck. Free-lancing could wait. He leant forward eagerly and murmured some words of gratitude.
"It's a small job," said Mr. Ogilvy, "but it's a beginning, and in a few years, say three or four, you'll be qualified for a rise in the world. It's the usual thing—apprentice-reporter. That's how we all started. Would you like it?"
"I would love it," replied Donald fervently.
"Good. It's on the Glossop Evening Mail——"
"On the what?" said Donald, his jaw dropping.
"The Glossop Evening Mail. Glossop. Town in Derbyshire."
"But—but—I thought you meant a job in London," faltered Donald.
"Young man," replied Mr. Ogilvy, "London is half-way up the ladder. You must start on the lowest rung. Your niche is Glossop."
Except for this mixing of metaphors, Donald remembered nothing more until he found himself on the stairs of the Carolean house in Royal Avenue, watching a swirl of pink ribbons and silks retreating swiftly—yet not too swiftly—into the modest shades of Gwladys' bedroom.
CHAPTER IV
The third and last of Donald's letters of introduction was from the Italian lecturer to a Mr. William Hodge, editor of the London Weekly, a paper which was entirely devoted to the Arts and, unlike Mr. Ossory's, rigidly excluded politics from its pages. Before going to keep his appointment with Mr. Hodge, the hour fixed by Mr. Hodge's secretary being "any time between 11 o'clock and five minutes to 1," Donald bought the current number of the London Weekly in order to make some sort of estimate of the character of the man he was going to meet. So far, he only knew Mr. Hodge as the author of several books of poems, exquisite in words, severe in style, lofty in thought—a fastidious genius who published a poem seldom, a bad poem never. Donald was even more nervous at the prospect of meeting the poetical Mr. Hodge than he had been at the prospect of meeting the enchanting Mr. Ossory and the practical Mr. Ogilvy. The former had only asked for an audience, an enchantee, so to speak; the latter had only wanted a victim for the altar of Glossop. The poet would require intelligence in anyone who was to gain his approval, and perception and intuition and fastidiousness. Donald wished he could quote Shakespeare aptly, or better still, Milton. Milton was more impressive, but fearfully difficult to do aptly. Shakespeare often came to earth, Milton so seldom. But as Donald could quote neither, the difference between them hardly mattered. The best thing to do was to sit quiet and let Mr. Hodge do the talking. But there again, there was a difficulty about that. Poets had an infernal habit, so Donald had always understood, of probing into people's characters, looking into their souls, "laying bare their inmost thoughts," as a lady critic had once finely said of Coventry Patmore in the Aberdeen Press and Journal, and, in fact, asking a lot of difficult questions and expecting answers to them. Mr. Hodge would be exceedingly angry and justifiably angry—if he took the trouble to lay bare Donald's inmost thoughts and found that Donald either resisted the process or, alternatively, had practically no inmost thoughts worth laying bare.
"The only thing to do," said Donald unhappily to himself as he began to turn over the pages of the London Weekly, "is to hope for the best."
But his hopes, never very high, were diminished by his study of the journal. Each contribution to its columns added to his perplexity, and, at the end, he lay back in his chair in a daze. So far from arriving at a clear notion of Mr. Hodge's personality, he was now completely befogged, and the only conclusion he could come to was that either Mr. Hodge was away holiday-making, leaving behind him a most erratic staff, or else that the editorial chair was occupied by a syndicate to which Mr. Hodge simply lent his name. Take the poetry, for instance. What consistent policy was there in printing three Shakespearean sonnets by one of the major Victorian Survivals, then a weird affair in chopped-up lines and no capital letters, all about violet-rayed bats in a-minor belfries, and then a ballade on the severe French model but with the refrain, "I made a century in Zanzibar?" Or consider the prose articles. A critical commentary upon the new edition of Dryden was admirable; copiously footnoted, obviously authoritative. A page upon the new Shakespearean discovery in the Record Office (made by an American professor of course; only American professors ever go into the Record Office) was in the best vein of scholarship, even though the discovery itself—that Shakespeare's father had once sold a bale of hay to a man called Browne and had not been paid for it—was not of the first importance. But how could those two weighty contributions be followed by a short story of extreme flippancy about football? A page describing the developments of post-war Nordic architecture was good. But to devote a page and half immediately afterwards to an apparently serious estimate of Mr. Edgar Wallace's novels, in which Mr. Wallace's technique was favourably compared to that of Dostoievsky, Mallarmé, and Pascal, seemed to the serious-minded Donald to be lunacy. To deplore the modern tendencies of the drama was one thing; to inveigh passionately against the proposed changes in the rules of billiards was surely another. And finally, the London Weekly was apparently doing its editorial utmost to raise funds for two causes—firstly, to save Stonehenge from being converted by a kind-hearted, sentimental Government into a canteen for welfare- workers among the neighbouring barracks; and secondly, to provide a purse which would enable a gentleman called Young Billy Binks to face all-comers at, or under, eight stone six at the National Sporting Club.
At the foot of the back page was this statement: "Printed by the London Weekly Press, E.C.4, and published by Mr. T. Puce. Subscription rates, Two pounds twelve shillings per annum. A subscription implies that this journal will be sent to the subscriber until one of the three expires."
Donald mopped his brow, read the whole paper through again, and then went to bed and dreamt that he was lost in a maze of trenches in a thick fog on a cold winter's day. Next morning he dressed himself very carefully for his interview with the poet. He put on a very old pair of grey flannel trousers with a hole at one knee, a pair of purple woolly socks specially bought for the occasion, a pale blue jumper, and the old coat in which he used to farm the Mains of Balspindie, a big bow tie and a big black felt hat; and, on surveying himself in the glass, he decided that he looked exactly like the ladies and gentlemen who sat upon the high stools in the Cadogan Arms, King's Road, and asked each other in loud voices across the saloon bar whether Augustus John had been in lately. And what was correct for painting and sculpting obviously could not be far wrong for poetry.
A No. 11 omnibus took him from Sloane Square to Fleet Street, and at twenty-five minutes to 12 he presented himself at the office in Bouverie Street of the London Weekly.
"Go right in," said Mr. Hodge's secretary, a tall young lady with fair hair and pleasant manners. "First door on your right."
Donald timidly opened the door, was met with a clatter of voices, and hastily closed it again.
"I'm afraid Mr. Hodge is engaged," he ventured.
"Shouldn't be surprised," replied the secretary indifferently. "Go right in," and she began to type with great dexterity.
"I think I'd better wait till he's disengaged," he murmured. He had no desire to be introduced to what was probably a brilliant group of poets and essayists as a "young man with literary aspirations"—for thus had the infernal librarian, who had seemed at the time to be so civil and appreciative—described him in the letter of introduction.
"Just as you like," said the secretary absently.
After a few minutes Donald plucked up sufficient courage to ask how long it was likely to be.
"How long is what likely to be?" shouted the secretary above the clatter of the typewriter.
"Before he is disengaged?" said Donald, raising his voice a little.
"What?" roared the secretary, typing faster than ever.
"Before he is disengaged?" bellowed Donald bravely. Unfortunately the secretary, who was a kindly soul and perceived the young man's diffidence, stopped her manipulations of the keyboard just as Donald let out his gallant stentorianism and his shout echoed wildly through the building, rattling the windows and setting the electric light bulbs a-quiver.
"Wot's up?" said the office boy, shooting through the door like a rather grubby cherub in a religious play.
"Get out!" said the secretary.
"Coo!" said the cherub, getting out.
A small, neat, wizened man with a bowler hat cocked rakishly over one ear and a salmon-pink tie, poked his head round another door and observed roguishly:
"Six to four the field, eh? I'll have a dollar each way on Jolly Boy for the 3.30. Bung-o, young Isaacs," and with this cryptic statement the wizened man winked twice and vanished.
Donald, blushing scarlet at his unfortunate predicament, was in far too great an agony of mind to grasp what the man had said, and the secretary obviously did not think it worth while grasping, for she tossed her head disdainfully and said:
"That's only Puce. Don't you mind him. As for William, he's never disengaged, so you might as well go in now as wait for a year."
And before Donald could resist or protest, he was shoo'd and shepherded through the first door on the right into the presence of one of the first poets of the land. The room in which he found himself was long and narrow, uncarpeted and unfurnished except for a desk at the far end and three chairs. Four men were grouped round the desk, one lounging against the mantelpiece, one sitting on the desk itself with dangling legs, and two kneeling on two of the chairs. The third chair, a large leather-padded swivel, was occupied by Mr. William Hodge himself, and the other men were obviously the circumference of a circle of which he was the centre.
Mr. Hodge was a man of about forty. He was of medium height, squarely built, rather stout, a little bald, and he had a pair of brown eyes behind enormous horn-rimmed, powerfully lensed glasses. He was clean-shaven, or rather the last time he had been shaved he had been clean-shaven. He was wearing patent-leather shoes, striped trousers, a morning coat, a grey waistcoat, a grey bow-tie, a huge pink carnation, and a grey bowler hat, and, at the moment when Donald came shuffling through the door, he was lying back in his swivel chair laughing uproariously. Indeed, all the men were laughing uproariously, and at the sight of the new-comer the laughter died away into a silence that made Donald wish he was dead. But the next moment he was saved by Mr. Hodge himself, who jumped up, threw his grey bowler into a waste-paper basket, and came down the room to meet him.
"Mr. Cameron," he said, beaming at him through his colossal glasses. "Come and sit down. How is my good friend of King's College Library?"
"He's sent you a letter," stammered Donald, fumbling in his pocket, but Mr. Hodge would have none of it.
"Don't bother about that," he said. "Letters of introduction are always silly and usually lies. 'A friend's friend' is all that ever need be said. Let me introduce Mr. Cameron, Mr. Smith, Mr. Walter, Mr. Wilson, Mr. Harcourt. Mr. Cameron is another of these infernal Scotsmen. And I rather fancy he comes from the neighbourhood of Aberdeen."
"I'm afraid I do," admitted Donald, and the five men laughed heartily.
"There was once a man from Aberdeen——" said Mr. Smith and they all laughed again. Donald joined in politely, being anxious not to appear provincial among these metropolitan wits.
"Well," said Mr. Hodge, "the real question of the moment is not whether you have recently been engaged in your fellow-citizens' favourite pastime of outdoing Jews in business deals, but whether you play cricket?"
"Cricket?" said Donald, blinking.
"A game played with dice and counters," put in Mr. Harcourt. He was a tall, thin youth of twenty-four or five, and his poems were already famous.
"Shut up, Rupert," said Mr. Hodge benevolently. "Do you play cricket, Mr. Cameron?"
"I used to play years ago," began Donald, and was interrupted by loud applause from the others.
"Splendid!" said Mr. Hodge warmly. "You're just the man we're looking for. I'm raising a side to play a village in Sussex. Saturday week."
"But I haven't played for ages."
"That doesn't matter two straws. A motor-bus will be at the Embankment entrance of the Underground Station at 10.15 on Saturday week. Do you bat or bowl?"
"Well, not really either——"
"Splendid. And now, what about a drink?"
"I've been saying that every five minutes since they opened," said thin Mr. Harcourt bitterly.
The party formed a sort of bodyguard round Mr. Hodge's grey bowler hat and flocked downstairs. The poet paused beside his secretary's table and said, "I'll be back in a quarter of an hour."
"No you won't, William," she replied without looking up.
"I assure you——" he began and then gave it up, and followed the others.
The Black Cat public-house was already crowded, although it was not yet 12 o'clock. Not since he had left the Army had Donald had a drink at such an early hour. Mr. Harcourt appeared to think that much valuable drinking-time had been lost since 11.30 A.M.
Mr. Hodge's party, appreciating the immense power of an organized minority, formed itself into a compact phalanx and quickly pushed its way to the counter, where it deployed to the right and left of the grey bowler, annexed all the available stools, and got down to business.
Donald, a pint mug in his hand, edged away to the extreme left of the line. The others were already deep in an argument about the comparative merits of two Rugby three-quarter backs, neither of whose names was familiar to Donald, and he was not anxious to push himself forward into the conversation. Gazing round through the already smoky atmosphere of the bar, his eye was caught by a figure which seemed familiar. It was the figure of a middle-aged man with a heavy iron-grey moustache and a heavy jowl. He was sitting by himself in a corner, drinking a whisky-and-soda and leaning his chin upon a large stick and gazing at the company. The more Donald looked at him the more certain he was that he had seen him before. This certainty was confirmed by the man's small but palpable start of surprise the first time that their eyes met. Donald quickly looked away, but on venturing a quick glance round the edge of his tankard a minute or two later, he saw that the man was no longer gazing at the company but was sitting back and frowning at the ceiling. Round of drinks succeeded round, and Donald had just disbursed the sum of seven shillings and a penny for five double whiskies for the five literary men and fourpence-halfpenny for a half-pint of beer for himself when he saw that the thick-set man in the corner was no longer frowning at the ceiling or anywhere else. He was smiling to himself in a complacent way, as a man is apt to do if he has accomplished something of which he is rather proud.
At 1 o'clock the bar of the Black Cat was filled almost to bursting-point, and thin Mr. Harcourt announced that no gentleman could drink in such a damnable place, and suggested "an adjournment"—a curious Parliamentary phrase, thought Donald—to the Pink Mouse in Something-or-other Alley. The others heartily concurred, and being now in the midst of a vigorous discussion about the language that Charlemagne spoke as his native tongue, they did not notice that Donald unobtrusively slipped away from them in the crowd and made for another exit. He had drunk quite as much beer as was good for him, and besides, it was looking as if it would be his privilege at the Pink Mouse to produce another seven shillings and a penny for his new friends and, if so disposed, another fourpence-halfpenny for himself, so swiftly did the turns come round. And he only had eleven-pence left in his pocket.
After the smoke and beer, the fresh air of Fleet Street, such as it was, hit him like a cold douche on the back of his neck, and he stood for a moment on the pavement, taking deep breaths of it. A pleasant voice at his elbow observed, "I don't remember your name, but we shared a pill-box at Passchendaele."
Donald spun round and faced the thick-set man.
"You're Davies," he said at once, the whole scene coming back to him.
"That's right. How clever of you! And now I'm going to be clever. Your name's come back to me. It's Cameron."
They shook hands warmly, and Davies carried Donald off to lunch and listened to the story of his experiences. At the end he said:
"You don't remember my suggestion in that infernal pill-box, I suppose?"
"I got concussion that same day," said Donald apologetically, "and I can't remember things very clearly."
"I'm a publisher," replied Davies, "and I suggested you might try a book about England for us. England as seen through the eyes of a Scotsman. Would you like to have a shot at it? We could fix up for you to meet people—you know the sort of thing—typical Englishmen."
"I'd love to have a shot at it," said Donald doubtfully.
"Splendid. When can you start?"
"At once."
"Good man. And look here," added the publisher, "I've got a small dinner-party to-night—just the sort of people who might be useful. Will you come along? Eight-fifteen?"
"I should like to very much."
"Black tie. 74B Mount Street."
And so it was arranged.
Just as they were parting outside the restaurant, Mr. Davies said:
"Oh, by the way, since I saw you last I've found out something about the English. There are two things you must never, never rag them about. One is the team spirit in cricket. You must never suggest in any sort of way that there are any individuals in cricket. It's the highest embodiment on earth of the Team."
"I must remember that on Saturday week," said Donald. "I'm going to play for Mr. Hodge. And what's the other thing you mustn't rag them about?"
"Lord Nelson," said Mr. Davies earnestly.
There were four other guests at Mr. Davies' dinner-party that evening, and each of the four took a kindly interest in the diffident young stranger. Sir Ethelred Ormerode, M.P., vaguely invited him to play golf at Sunningdale; Sir Ludovic Phibbs, M.P., vaguely invited him to play golf at Walton Heath; Miss Perugia Gaukrodger devoted an hour and three quarters to him after dinner, describing with a wealth of minute detail the story of her rise to world fame, each step being measured in the net sales of her novels; and Lady Ormerode, M.P., firmly invited him to spend the following week-end at Ormerode Towers in the county of Surrey.
