Scissors

CHAPTER II

I

He had never experienced anything like this before, and after the dismal events of the day, the exhilaration he felt was heightened by reaction. The stall in which he sat was luxurious. It was good to see around him so many prosperous, well-groomed men, and smiling, richly clad, or half-clad women. Then the lights, streaming on the gilding, the brass rails, the tall proscenium, and the gaudily panelled ceiling, with its naked nymphs, rosy limbed, floating from pursuing youths on banks of fleecy cumulus,—all tended to awaken the senses. But oh! the music and the ballet! that wild spontaneous rush of thistledown feet and lovely limbs, the glitter, the elaborately evolved design, the swift riot of colour swimming on a sea of soft melody that poured out over the darkened auditorium! From the white beauty of "Lés Sylphides," dreamlike, as a stirring of lilies on a moonlit pool, they had passed to the happy flirtations of "Carnival." John, in ecstasy, forgot the sick misery of his heart, forgot those cold refusals, the reluctant opening of numerous doors, the frigid examination of self-confident men, the waiting, the snubbing, the insolence of office boys and porters; his deep hatred of Fleet Street, his apprehension of fruitless days, all passed away as he peered into these glades of music and loveliness. With the blaze of prodigal splendour in "Scheherezade," the swift change of music from revelry to terror, the hurrying and scurrying of silk-clad women, the stern dignity of the departing Sultan, John's head swam. He almost forgot to look for Wellington and de Courtrai in that rapturous release of the captives and the licentious abandon of the women on their entry. It was with difficulty that he penetrated their disguise, for the effeminate dandies of Mariton Street were half-naked dusky men with muscular torsos who leapt and danced with fierce exultation before their adoring lovers. John could hardly realise that these superb athletes, masters of rhythm and gesture, were the two vulgar youths who, despite his coolness, had shown him nothing but kindness, with such insistence, that he had accepted their pressing invitations to this performance. And his amazement passed to unbounded admiration when de Courtrai died from a stroke of the Sultan's scimitar, in a magnificent somersault that laid his body prone at the feet of his terrified mistress. The curtain fell to a tumult of applause.

The long interval enabled John to explore the promenade at the back. He stood in a corner and watched the parade, and wondered if it was always the same, night after night—what kind of lives these people lived, where their money came from, their nationality, for there were overdressed young Jews with patent-button boots and silver-topped canes, elegant dandies with waisted coats, girlish-looking youths that smirked and simpered, heavy-jowled men with pendulous stomachs and evil gloating eyes under bald, shiny heads. The women too, French, German and Russian, dark, fair, loud-voiced, high-heeled, arrayed in furs, small-footed and mincing, they passed, with quick eyes and mechanical smiles, or sulky stare and—

"Penny for your thoughts, dearie," said a girl in a large white stole, as she laid a kid-gloved hand on John's arm.

He started more in fear than surprise.

"Lord love us—I shan't bite yer!" she laughed. "So shy! and a pretty boy too," she added, giving her fur a twitch while she looked audaciously into his eyes with a frank stare. "How do you keep your complexion, lovey? That ain't Ligett's one and six in cardboard boxes, I know."

John smiled, almost unintentionally. She could only be about eighteen, and despite the hard mouth, she had innocent, kind eyes.

"That's right—you're a regular Adonis with that showcase smile," she exclaimed. Several persons were watching them. John coloured with self-consciousness.

"Gawd! I wish I could do that—an' I did once, dearie, before the dirty work on the cross roads. But I don't mind a Martini before Strumitovski waves his stick again."

What could he do? To say "No" might provoke an outburst. He moved towards the bar, her hand still on his arm. He felt a thousand eyes turn on them, heard a thousand whispers. He was sure the bar-maid smirked satirically when he ordered two Martinis. He had never had a cocktail in his life, and didn't know whether to drink or eat the red cherry in the amber liquid. His companion led the way and he saw she expected another, although he had not swallowed half of the bitter stuff. He ordered two more, and while they talked a warm glow crept over him, and with it a feeling of distance. He seemed to be talking to her down a corridor. There was a loud ringing of a bell above the babel.

"Where are you sitting?" she said, propelling him out. Before he could answer some one called "Dean!" rather excitedly. The voice was familiar, and turning, in the crush at the door, he saw Lindon.

"What on earth are you—?" began Lindon joyously. Then, suddenly he saw the gloved hand on John's arm and swiftly glanced at his companion. Lindon winked expressively. "See you later, Scissors," he called. "I'm at Jules, Jermyn Street," and then disappeared. Utter confusion fell upon John. He strode fiercely along.

"Lord! do you owe him a fiver?" simpered the girl.

"No—certainly not, it's you!" he returned fiercely.

She did not flinch, accustomed perhaps to such remarks. John, although slightly drunk, was aware of his cruelty and felt penitent.

"Don't flare, dearie," she said quietly.

He halted at the corner where he turned for the gangway.

"Good-bye," he said, somewhat ungallantly, to which she responded by detaching her arm.

"Aren't you coming home with me, boysie?" she asked plaintively, her eyes very serious.

"No—thanks, not to-night—I don't—I—" but he could not say it. She divined it, however.

"I know you don't—and I'll not be the first. You shy darling!" she cried impulsively, taking his face between her hands and kissing his mouth. A moment later she had gone, leaving nothing but a faint odour of stale scent. Pale now, John leaned on the wall while the blood surged to his brain, then, with a heart thumping tumultuously, he found his way back to his seat. The rest of the ballet passed unheeded; his mind was tracking that plaintive little face through the dark house.

When the curtain fell on the final divertissement, in accordance with instructions John found his way round to the stage door, in a dark back street, where stood several luxurious motor cars, a small group of young men and women, autograph hunters chiefly, a tout or two, all kept outside the stage door, blazing with light, by a hoarse-voiced man in livery, to whom in turn, each member of the company called "Good night, Billy." At last Wellington and de Courtrai appeared and with them, three young ladies of the ballet, called Fluffy, Pop and Pansy respectively. On the programme they had Russian names, as had his two friends, but their accents betrayed familiarity with Balham. They were pupils in the corps de ballet, and for ten minutes—during which they all walked towards Piccadilly Circus, there was an animated discussion of the performance, its errors, and the wickedness of the conductor who had taken the last score through in seven-eight time, causing a collapse of the principals the moment the final curtain had fallen, whereupon he had been summoned to the wings by Lydia Lamanipoff and had his face well slapped for his insolence. Pop declared that it would end that "affair" which had been a subject of current gossip ever since Lydia had thrown over Tamanski for biting her shoulder in the "Bacchanale."

John was swept along in the crowd, his own little group noisily laughing and talking, Pansy hanging on his right arm, while her other fondled a Pekinese dog with an enormous blue bow. They turned in at a restaurant on the corner of a street, descended some marble steps that wound round a lift, and suddenly John, pulled through a couple of swing doors, halted amazed in a marble panelled room, over-lit, with innumerable small tables surrounded by men and women. Wellington made his way down the centre of the room, glancing at himself in the large mirrors on his left and enjoying the sensation their entrance caused. He commandeered a table down at the bottom, near the noisy waitresses' buffet; above the babble of voices rose the discordance of an orchestra on a dais. Its chief function appeared to be that of creating as much noise as possible, including antics at the piano and on a small drum and an organ. Wellington and de Courtrai appeared to be well-known, for several dandified youths, distinguished by spats, cuffs, side-whiskers or monocles, came over to speak to them, and all were very convivial, ending their remarks with, "Won't you introduce me?" Handshaking was a great ceremony, accompanied with "How d'ye do?" to which was allied its inseparable bromide, "Pleased to meet you."

Pop distinguished herself by ordering steak and chips and a bottle of stout; Pansy had a more delicate taste, ordering sardines on toast, which de Courtrai declared was a specialty in this hall of many tables. Bewildered, John ordered the recommended dish, refused a cigarette from a pale gentleman who insisted upon talking across Pansy to him, and was suffocated with the heat and tobacco smoke. The conversation was still of Lydia and her loves, punctuated by long stories of the ladies, and other ladies' furs and "fellahs." John, desperate for a theme of conversation, began by praising the Pekinese, and then narrated his experience with the lady and her three dogs in the park. To his surprise it awakened immediate and deep interest. At the end, the girls giggled and Wellington exclaimed, "Chase me!"

"It's thumbs up," said de Courtrai, wisely.

"What a cheek!" asserted Pansy, rolling her eyes; Pop declaring, "It's a shime to lead awy the young,"—whereupon there was loud laughter.

"Mind what you drink," said Fluffy impressively.

"I should take Welly as chaperon," advised Pansy.

John, getting redder and redder, partly in anger at his own naïve foolishness, partly at their insinuations, declared he was not going at all.

"What!" they all screamed in amazement.

"Wish I'd the chance," commented de Courtrai, adjusting his tie. "I want some one to take a motherly interest in me."

There was another bellow of laughter. All eyes were turned on their table. John wished he could get away. But they sat on until the lights began to go out, and when at last they were in the street again, John discovered, to his dismay, they were not bound for home but for Pop's flat off Jermyn Street. He suggested going home alone.

"Rubbish, the fun's just beginning," cried Fluffy, taking his arm. He was swept along with them. Pop led the way, herded them into a small lift that ran up out of a dark hall in the street. It halted on the fourth floor, where they all emerged.

"Wonder if the Colonel's in," said Pop, turning the key. They all followed and the question was answered in the diminutive hall by the emergence from a brilliantly lit room of the Colonel himself. He was big fat man, with a treble chin and thin lips. His eyes were beady and their sockets were sunken and baggy. On his enormous stomach he displayed a heavy gold chain, and as if to augment the size of the foundations of such an enormous superstructure, he wore white spats. A diamond glittered on his finger, six black hairs trailed across his gleaming head, and his teeth were stopped with gold. Anyone more unlike a colonel, John had never seen. When John, later, asked de Courtrai for his regiment, the wise young man laughed.

"Oh—he's one of the Nuts," answered de Courtrai.

Certainly he was. He kissed the three girls in a fatherly way, poured for them all a whiskey and soda, offered John a cigar, and finally sprang amazingly on to the lid of the baby grand piano, where he dangled his enormous legs. Pop disappeared into an adjoining room. Then it was her home thought John, for she emerged a few minutes later in a kimono, with slippers on and her hair down. She curled up on a cushion by the fireplace, lit a cigarette, and looked up admiringly at the Colonel. He had now dismounted, to permit Fluffy to sing, Wellington accompanying, after which the latter played with a skill and touch that surprised John. When Pop had contributed, "Keep on loving me," to which refrain the Colonel pursed his lips frequently, they called for John to perform. He pleaded excuse, but they would not listen.

"I don't know anything, really," he urged, but they forced him down to the piano.

"What is it?" asked Fluffy as he played the opening bars.

"O Lovely Night."

Pop looked at Wellington.

"My—he's rapid, ain't he?" she said, but John did not hear.

There was a strange stillness as he sang. Even Fluffy stared into space, her pretty little face, under the rose shade, pensive. "Makes me all shivery," she whispered, between the verses.

Why did he sing this, John was asking himself. It was quite out of keeping with the atmosphere. He was a fool to court failure like this, but he struggled through. No one spoke when he finished. Finally Pop asked for another cigarette.

"You've got a lovely voice," said the Colonel. "Wish I could sing like that. Could once, when a kid—in a choir," he said with a wry smile, pouring out a whiskey and soda.

"Lor—you in a choir," smirked Fluffy, pushing a thin finger into his pendulous stomach. The Colonel resented this familiarity.

"Yes, my gal, me in a choir—and solo tenor too, don't you forget it!" He gulped down his drink and sighed. Pop put her arms round his neck and kissed his bald head.

"Did 'ums den," she crooned, and they all laughed.

Soon afterwards they left, Pop and the Colonel standing in the doorway until the lift had gone down. Later, walking down Mariton Street, after they had parted from Fluffy and Pansy, de Courtrai discussed the girls.

"Orl right, of course, but, as you know, not ladies."

"Is the Colonel Pop's father?" asked John.

His two companions halted and stared at him.

"My dear child—" began de Courtrai.

"Dean's my name."

De Courtrai gaped.

"Really if you resent our—" Wellington drawled.

"I do resent being made a fool," said John, hotly.

The conversation was strained for the rest of the walk home.

The Viennese clock in the drawing-room struck three as they lighted their candles in the hall.

II

The following morning, in a contemplative hour in bed, John was conscience smitten. He was on the road to ruin, exactly as in the books he had scoffed at. Flashy companions, the stage, the stage door, actresses, fast places of resort, doubtful flats, men of loose morals, and drink—yes, three drinks, two in the bar—the bar!—and one at the Colonel's, and then, as ended all vulgar affairs, a quarrel on the way home. What would Muriel think if she knew? Was this the way he was winning through? He had been in London four days and was on the downward path. Penitent, he sprang out of bed, and to strengthen his will, denied himself even a dash of warm water in his bath. At breakfast de Courtrai and Wellington were missing, for which he was grateful. It was good to talk with the Irish girl, enjoy her bright laughter and the fresh look in her eyes; what a contrast to those bedizened ladies of the ballet. Mrs. Perdie was in her most motherly mood; she came up specially from the kitchen to have a look at Mr. John.

"I wondered if you were coming in, Mr. Dean—I was awake with my lumbago—but there you are. It's a strange young man who can resist the night air of London!"

He felt inclined to resent her comment, but it was so good-natured that he laughed in reply. The real mother emerged half an hour later when she met him alone in the hall, where he came to enquire after his laundry.

"You'll soon lose that lovely colour of yours, Mr. Dean, in this whirlpool, if you deny yourself proper rest. I've seen many a bright young gentleman go dull through coming home with the milk. Perhaps I shouldn't say it, but lor, Mr. Perdie always said I was mother-mad, an' p'raps I am. You'll not wear yourself out chasing the moon down, will you?"

Her good-natured face wore an anxious look.

"An' it's not for me to say really, but them young gentlemen upstairs are not your kind, and I'm sorry if I'm presuming, Mr. Dean," she said, wiping her hands on her apron.

"Not at all—I appreciate your anxiety, Mrs. Perdie," answered John. "I shan't use my latchkey very often, you'll find."

"There, sir, I felt I must say it, seeing you might ha' been my own son, sort of fashion, an' I'm easy now." She disappeared suddenly below.

At ten-thirty that morning, John sat in the office of the New Review. He had with him a letter of introduction from Mr. Vernley to Melton Cane, the editor. For one hour he sat in the waiting-room overlooking Covent Garden, while he listened to the whirr of the typewriter in the next room. A door on his right opened into the editor's den, wherein sat the assistant editor reading manuscripts, which he took ceaselessly out of a big tin box. The reader was a tall heavy man, with sandy hair and a fresh complexion. He had chatted pleasantly with John and told him poetry was a drug on the market, and they were choked with it.

"Ever since we discovered Mayfield's narrative epic, we've been inundated with plagiaries of his work. I wade through them until I sink in despair."

"But I haven't brought any poetry," explained John.

The big man gave a sigh of relief.

"You look like a poet—which made me think there was no hope for you—all those who look the part write dreadful rubbish. You saw that schoolgirls-dream come in a few minutes ago?" He alluded to a magnificent, leonine-headed youth with flaming tie and dark cloak whom John had taken for one of the great on earth. "Here's the stuff he's left—without a stamped addressed envelope for return—

My soul is bitter within me,
Long nights have I contemplated
The ego that is mine
And questioned to what immortality
Destined I go—

I can tell him at once—the waste paper basket."

The offending manuscript joined the pile of the rejected.

"You do write?" asked the assistant editor.

"A little."

"Prose or poetry?"

"Prose."

"Ah! there's some hope, but not much. Are you aware, my dear boy, that only three out of every hundred novels bring their authors royalties, and that only one of those three provides a decent income? Do you know that editors rely on big names, their directors' literary shareholders and occasionally, when they have been out of town too long and must go to press, the literary agent?"

John did not know this. The assistant editor stood up and yawned. "One day I'm going to run a school of authorship. Having been a hack for ten years with the income of a typist, I shall tell the aspirants how to become authors, and get testimonials from all the editors in whose papers I shall advertise my prospectus. Have a cigarette?"

John took one. They smoked in silence for a while. The assistant editor pointed to a portrait on the wall. "That poor devil committed suicide in Brussels last week. He had a net income of £4 per month from this Review. Why do people write poetry, why do they write at all? Literature is not a profession, it's a form of vagrancy."

"You've been a vagrant?" said John.

"How did you know?"

"I read your travel books and liked them."

"Oh—well, I'm off for good this time. I'm going to Capri where I shall sleep all day and talk all night. Been to Capri? No? Well, it's a good place to fade away in. Are you going to wait for Cane?"

"Yes."

"He'll come in with a rush and go out with one. He's lunching with the Irish Secretary. He's in such a hurry that he's never sure whether he is in Constantinople, Berlin or Paris. His pet theory just now is the German menace; have you anything on the German menace?"

"No—I've—"

"That's the line at present. Last month we were Malthusian, this, we are standing for strong language in modern verse, next the German menace—we don't know what after that; the menace may run to two numbers. You will notice I am discreet. That is half my charm. It's now twelve, I think you'd better wait half an hour, and then come out to lunch with me."

"Oh thank you, but—"

"No, it's not kind of me, as you think. You keep me from being bored with myself. Presently you shall tell me all the ambitions of your white young soul, all the sinks you are going to flush with your flood of zeal, the heights of fame you will scale, the way you propose to pay for board and lodgings, how you'll persuade the publisher you are the infallible boom he is waiting for. But you shall not read me any of your poetry."

"I don't write poetry. I told you I didn't," began John.

"Almost I am persuaded," said the assistant editor. "But you will; the symptoms are there It is a mental measles you cannot escape." He stacked up the unread manuscripts. "There are poets in that pile who can write like Keats, like Shelley, like Byron, like Wordsworth, and they do it just as well. They've been born too late. What they can't do is to write like themselves. There are over thirty Swinburnes here, and enough suggested immorality to poison the Vatican library. Most of it is written by young ladies."

At this moment Mr. Cane came in. He was a little man, going bald, with scrubby moustache. John was about to retire, but he bade him stay. Rapidly he glanced through half a dozen letters on his desk, dictated social acceptances to his typist and then turned to John.

"Now—what can I do?"

John presented his letter. Cane read it quickly.

"You want work, I see. There's none worth having in the literary world. You're well informed, I'm told. Do you know Elverton Thomas?"

"I've heard of him."

"He wants a secretary who can get points for his speeches. If you like, I'll give you a letter to him at the House of Commons."

"It isn't what I want, thank you," said John.

"We don't always get what we want," snapped Cane. "I can't do anything else for you," he added with an air of ending the matter.

"You can if you will, Mr. Cane, please. You know Mr. Walsh."

"Well?"

"I want to see him."

"Newspaper editors are very busy men."

"They've always time for good business," urged John.

"H'm—how old are you?—you can get what you want, I see."

"Nineteen, with lots of drive in me."

"You want to get on a newspaper?"

"Yes—I'm determined to."

"I'll ring up Walsh. Go to his office at five to-day. He'll be in then."

"Thank you very much."

Cane stood up, buttoned his coat, put on a glove.

"I'm going now," he said to his assistant. "I'll sign those cheques this afternoon. Send back Professor Railing's articles on Shakespeare—there's nothing bar his resurrection could make a noise for him." He strode to the door.

"How's Mr. Vernley?" he asked John.

"Very well, sir, thank you."

"And Muriel?—a bright child that!"

A light leapt in John's eyes. The other man understood at once and gave him the first warm human look.

"Oh—she's very well, sir."

The door closed, he was gone.

"There! what do you think of him?" asked the assistant, somewhat proudly, John thought. "He'll play bridge at the Reform until four, dance at Murray's during tea, and rush back here before dressing for the opera. And those simpletons," with a wave towards the pile of the rejected, "think he spends his time discovering them for the next number. Our next specialty in verse—is a mechanic poet. There have been navy poets, tramp poets, fishermen poets, postmen poets, porter poets, but no one's found a mechanic poet. I have, and strange to say he doesn't write about lathes, cams or beltings. He's gone back to pure Greek. Here's 'Iphigenia in Balham.' Victorian bricks and mortar mixed with ancient Greece. We've prevailed on the Bishop of London to quote it next month. That'll start the Church News; an interview in the Daily Mail with the new poet, and we are well into a second edition. Now let's go to lunch. I don't know your name. I'll call you Narcissus—listening to my echoes."

"That's a lucky shot," said John. "That is my nickname. Dean's my name."

"Ha!" said the assistant editor. "You are a reincarnation. I must take you to a lady friend of mine. She will see the aura of a chlamys under your flannel shirt. My name, too, is strange—not what you would think for a moment. Not poetical or suggestive, scarcely practical even—just Smith—you start at the revelation. It is distinguished only by having neither a 'y' nor an 'e'. We belong to the original Smiths—the blacksmiths. Ready?"

Crossing the Strand, John began to wonder if this was the inevitable end of all attempts to do work in London. It was good-natured of this stranger to take him out. He was amused at his torrential witty chatter, but it was not solving the all-pressing problem of getting a living.

After lunch they parted in the Strand, John promising to take Smith the short story which he confessed he had written. It was now a quarter past three. He walked slowly down towards Fleet Street. Would Cane fulfill his promise and arrange his interview with Walsh? He particularly wanted to join the staff of the Daily Post. He had read it regularly at school. Three times they had published letters of his, and they had taken two articles.

He found the Square, lying back from Fleet Street, in which the offices of the Daily Post were situated. Through the swing doors he came to an enquiry office, and asked for Mr. Walsh. Had he an appointment? He thought so, through Mr. Cane. The uniformed attendant noted the fact on a slip of paper with John's name. He was then led into a small waiting-room. It was opposite the lift and contained a bare table and four chairs. The walls were hung with portraits of former editors and directors. John waited, standing. His heart was beating with suppressed anxiety; he felt he was on the fringe of things. A long wait, then a page boy asked him to follow. He entered the lift, rose several storeys, walked down a long white-bricked corridor, turned a corner and found himself in an oval hall, with several doors leading out of it. John was asked to wait. Behind one of these doors sat the great man. There was much coming and going of clerks, and possibly reporters. Half an hour dragged by. John stood up and paced the floor. Then three quarters of an hour, and still no summons. Through a glass door he could see a young man writing under a shaded light He tapped the door, and the writer came to him.

"Is Mr. Walsh disengaged yet?"

"I don't know—have you an appointment? What name?"

John told him. The dark young man disappeared through another door. He came back in a few seconds.

"Mr. Walsh is sorry, but he cannot see you."

Dismay covered John's face.

"But I have been kept—"

"He is very busy to-day ."

"Surely he knew that before?"

"Perhaps—but he can't see you."

"Then I shall sit here until he can."

The young man smiled.

"This office never closes," he said.

"But that door opens," retorted John, nodding at a a door.

It was a lucky guess.

"His secretary won't let you in—it is quite useless, really."

"We shall see," said John, now enjoying his obstinacy. A door close by opened, and a small clean-shaven man, of middle age with gold pince-nez, stood by listening to the debate. He suppressed a smile as he looked at the flushed youngster, then came forward.

"What do you want?" he asked.

"I want to see the editor, sir, and if he's a gentleman—he'll see me after waiting for him an hour."

The man peered at him through his eye glasses.

"I'm afraid he's not a gentleman, but you can see him."

"Oh, thank you, sir."

"Come along," he said and showed him into a large room littered with papers and books. He motioned John to a seat.

"Now what do you want?" he asked, standing with his back to the door.

"I want to see Mr. Walsh, please."

"On what business?"

"It's personal—" began John.

"Perhaps so—but he must know. You want to write for the paper I suppose?"

"You've guessed it, sir,—but do let me see him," John pleaded.

"He's engaged with the chief reporter at present—but he will see you soon, if you're patient."

He then left the room by another door.

John looked out of the window, down across the flat top of temporary buildings, and saw the traffic surging along Fleet Street. He was engrossed in the spectacle when his benefactor re-entered and seated himself in the revolving chair before the littered desk.

"The editor will see you now," he said.

John jumped up.

"Oh, thank you sir," he cried, and walked toward the door.

"In here!" said the man, waving a hand for John to resume his seat. "I am Mr. Walsh—though you may have expected a gentleman."

"Oh!" cried John, and collapsed in confusion.

"Mr. Cane tells me you are an enterprising young man. I see you are an obstinate one. They are both qualities required on a newspaper. I'm sorry we've no vacancies. The principle on which a newspaper is staffed is that we always have more men than we can employ—for emergencies and for weeding out. You have no experience?"

"No sir, but I—"

"Don't worry, experience is unnecessary to any but duffers. You look sharp. Leave your address with my secretary. If a vacancy occurs—"

"But it won't sir."

"How do you know?"

"I know that's the way every unsatisfactory interview ends," said John, grimly, more desperate than insolent.

Mr. Walsh got up and crossed to the mantelpiece.

"How old are you?"

"Nearly twenty, sir. You see, I must earn a living, my bit of money won't last long. That has nothing to do with you, but I know you will be glad to have me when it is too late."

The editor smiled.

"You believe in yourself, and you'll succeed. But I can't take you on. I'll attach you, however. You can do a few theatres, and art galleries and perhaps the literary editor can give you a little work."

"Oh, thank you sir."

"And one day we may be able to put you on the reporting staff."

"On what basis am I paid?" asked John.

"For what you do."

"And how much is that?"

"Depends on the chief reporter. It's all I can offer you, it's a chance."

"I'll take it, thank you."

John rose.

"See Mr. Merritt before you go." He held out his hand. "And I wish you luck."

John was dismissed. Outside the door he took a deep breath. He had won the first round. All now depended on Mr. Merritt, who, he learned, was out. John left word to say he would call the following afternoon. His next job was to go into Philip's shop, and buy a map of London. At tea, in a Lyon's shop, he read down a list of amusements. Dramatic critic for the Daily Post—he murmured to himself. It sounded splendid. And what a shock for Wellington and de Courtrai! That evening he wrote to Vernley, to Muriel and to Marsh. He also sent a letter to Mrs. Graham and Mr. Steer, saying he was in London, and asking if he might call.

CHAPTER III

I

In the entrance of the Circle Theatre there were already several loiterers awaiting friends with whom they were going to see the new play. Among them John. There was of course, nothing unusual in his appearance; the gallery queue which had filed past the main entrance, after its long vigil, would not know he differed from any other of those fortunate fellows who, well-groomed, drove up in taxis and cars and walked to their reserved seats, carrying the undigested peacock to the stalls. It was all so new to him, this animated scene with its types of humanity. Merritt, a thoroughly good fellow who had immediately shown a kindly disposition to the new man, had introduced him to Bailey, the dramatic critic of the Echo, who now accompanied him. Together they stood by the portrait of a famous American actress and scrutinised the arriving audience. There were Jews, of course, little men, with semi-bald heads and black curly fringes; they all wore patent button boots, and very fancy dress waistcoats. The cut of their clothes was ultra-fashionable, and there was a glint of gold and a flash of diamonds at many points of their ostentatious persons. Gold-mounted walking sticks and cigars were noticeable.

"These are the inner circle of the dramatic world," said Bailey. "That's Reinstein; he owns six theatres and a chain of restaurants; you eat his dinners and then try to digest them and his plays in his stalls. I've seen great dramatists, men who can make you weep with their beautiful sentiment, run across the street to speak to him."

"That's an awful looking beggar," said John, catching a vile leer directed at an under-dressed young woman who waved an ostrich feather fan as she passed, on the arm of an old man.

"A clever fellow—nine successes this season. That's Wentz, his scout, a word from him will make or mar an actor or actress."

"Who's the man he's talking to?"

"Ah—that's Lewis—he's one of us," replied Bailey.

"Us?"

"The most aggressive, the most feared and advertised of us all. His column every Sunday is said to be the only thing that Reinstein and his crowd worry about."

John looked at him. Hook-nosed he wore an ingratiating smile and his voice purred as he spoke; when he laughed he emitted a high falsetto note. John's observation was broken by the entrance of an amazing spectacle into the charmed circle. A man, so diminutive that his dress shirt dominated him like a plate on a plate-holder, was shaking hands with Lewis. On his fat nose he balanced, precariously, a pair of pince-nez through which he peered bemusedly. The tips of his chubby hands just emerged from two prominent cuffs, his legs being wholly lost in corkscrew trousers falling over the feet.

"Good heavens!" cried John, "just look at—"

But another apparition joined the circle. Nature had created him as an antidote to the little man. He was huge; a behemoth. His heavy jaw, the massive head, the long teeth, made him a perfect ogre, and in fulfilment he scowled at his companions. His large hands hooked themselves by the thumbs on to the pockets of voluminous trousers.

"They belong to us," said Bailey, enjoying the shock he administered. John's pride in his vocation had been too obvious not to afford amusement to a confirmed cynic who had sat in the stalls for twenty years, and had never betrayed the weakness of enthusiasm.

"But—but surely," said John, "the newspapers don't send people like these—what about their dignity?"

"Dignity! There's no such thing in journalism. That belongs to the leader-writer—in print."

"Are they all like this?"

"Most of us," replied Bailey, lighting a cigarette from the stub of another. "We're working 'subs' by day and deadhead gentlemen by night—the more respectable are civil servants—and they are the least civil critics. Still—there are a few presentable ones; we have the Grand Old Man—he's not here yet. He is a perfect contrast to the Nut-food man—they'll be here later."

A curly-headed young man in a fur coat strolled in. He gave himself a side glance in the long mirror, approved of his classic beauty and passed on. Everybody nodded to him and he acknowledged their homage graciously. Several elderly ladies and a flashily dressed actress hurried after him into the theatre.

"That's Ronnie Mayfair—the actor. Freddie Pond will be here soon. I've never known him to miss a first night."

Just then, John's attention was attracted by a swift glimpse of a passing head. Its unusual beauty arrested him, the dark vivacious eyes flashing under a head of black bobbed hair. She could not be more than twenty, he thought, she was so slim. The extreme simplicity of her dress, falling without any decoration from shoulder to the knee, emphasised the lightness of her poise. She was a swift darting creature, with a sensuous mouth, crimson and pensive. But there was determination, defiance almost, in every movement of her body. Passion merely smouldered: she could be a creature of sudden contrary moods. She threw John a quick but searching glance as she passed, conscious of her power to attract, and the weakness of all his sex to respond, and yet it was not a challenge so much as a half-contemptuous provocation of his nature. Bailey, observant and detached, did not fail to see the magic fire that had leapt from one to the other. He saw this youth quiver with a sudden agitation, saw the answering challenge of the lithe form that flitted by, sure of the spoil if it cared to possess.

"No," said Bailey, laying a hand on John's shoulder, amused at his false assumption of indifference, "don't be another moth. There are too many singed already."

The boy laughed, then, with a careless tone——"Who is she?"

"The Chelsea Poppy—she's Hoffmann's famous model."

He knew then in a moment. So this was the Chelsea Poppy, the much sonneted model of Hoffmann's famous heads. He loathed this forceful Jew's sculpture—its deliberate accentuation of the ugly, its cult of the repulsive, its coarse workmanship, apologised for as the new art. Like others he had wondered how foolish Society women could make themselves so extravagant over this ugly little man, the jerseyed king of the Café de l'Europe, with a court of disorderly disciples. The head of Poppy was famous. In the marble he had loathed its sensuality, the ugliness of the contorted face. But there was a repulsive similarity to the original; it was a cruel travesty of the flower-like beauty he had just seen.

"She's—amazing," said John, not trusting himself to say more.

"In many ways," added Bailey. "Here's Freddie. It is a perfect first-night, if the Grand Old Man will come."

"Curtain up!" came the call. The lounge emptied into the darkened house. The dramatic critics became very serious.

II

The end of the first act gave John another glimpse of the Chelsea Poppy, a less assuring glimpse. She was talking, at the entrance to the bar, to a cadaverous fellow who leered at her, and an involuntary shudder passed over John as he noticed the possessive look in the eyes of the man; he resented the fact that the girl seemed in no way perturbed. Probably she was at home with that kind of man; certainly she talked with absolute familiarity, and her hoarse little laugh jarred on the ears of the youth ready to adore. Twice she winked at a pair of young cavalry officers who sat on a lounge opposite, partly to display their seamless boots, partly to catch the girl's eye. Snatches of their conversation floated over to the youth who stood alone under the mirror. They were enjoying themselves at the expense of the promenaders. The diminutive fat man provoked their scorn.

"How do such people get into this part of the house?" asked the pink and white youth, twisting an auburn moustache.

"Can't say," drawled the pride of the regiment, regarding with satisfaction his thin thighs. "The fellow's a reporter I suppose!" They yawned and then watched a girl's ankles until she drew near, whereupon they coldly looked at her from head to foot. She seated herself on the lounge. When John turned away she had taken a cigarette from the proffered case. They did not rise with the call of the curtain. In the interval after the second act, John let Bailey point out more celebrities. There was a distinguished looking Jew, with dilated nostrils, iron grey hair and a stoop, handsome in the manner of his race, bearing the impress of intellect.

"That's Luboff the novelist!"

The famous portrayer of Jewry passed; his face, despite its lineal coarseness, had an amazing beauty in its character. A few minutes later Bailey was talking with the novelist and introduced John, who found himself magnetised by an intense personality with great charm. He was a man with a hundred fights against poverty, prejudice and ill-health, but he had triumphed nobly. He had interpreted the Jews to a scornful world, displayed their poverty, revealed their poetry. As a dramatist he had assumed the role of a reformer; he entertained the crowd, but he lectured it. After a few minutes' chat he left them to speak to Lord Rendon, who, despite his elephantine exterior, had a nimble mind versed in the subtleties of politics and philosophy. At this moment John's attention was arrested by the re-appearance of the girl in red. She was talking to an astounding man whose hair straggled in disorder down to and over a soft brown collar. He wore a pair of black metal pince-nez, smoked a stubby pipe, the bowl of which he pressed from time to time with fingers that scorned the need of the manicurist. The Socialist was written all over him; there was sabotage in his eyes, repressed defiance in his gestures. He wore, to accentuate his untidy eccentricity, a faded brown sports coat, the pockets bulging with papers, and most of the buttons missing.

"Ah," said Bailey, "now you've seen the nut-food man—that's Adams of the Argus—clever chap, but thinks untidiness is a sign of intellect."

"I see he knows the model—he's a Bohemian?"

"Yes—at least he hopes so. We haven't any real Bohemians in this country. They live on the Continent. When Englishmen try to be Bohemian they only succeed in being lazy or noisy. You'll find that each of them is regarded as a rising poet, a rising novelist or a rising dramatist. They're always rising until they are middle-aged, when they disappear somewhere. Really, Bohemians are the dullest persons; they've no topics but their egotism. Avoid them, Dean—they're never hygienic. I can enjoy a third-rate artist who is ornamental, but these people are merely extravagant."

"But he looks interesting," urged John.

"So he is—you want to meet him?"

"Well—" He was desperately anxious to know Adams, for Adams knew the girl. He must speak to her before the play ended. Bailey guessed the hope and buttonholed Adams who shook hands.

"This is Mr. Dean. Tilly," he said, turning to the girl who had drawn aside.

"Miss Topham," he informed John. The girl looked at him casually, and merely exclaimed, "Oh!" It was a shock to the eager youth and for two or three minutes she ignored him. Then—

"You're new to London?" she said coldly.

"Yes, but who told you?" answered John.

"No one,—I could see you were by the way you've been looking at people."

This was a set back. John gave her a frightened look and she was pleased by this success.

"Have I—I hope I don't appear—" he stammered.

"It doesn't matter—they like it; that's what they come here for."

John was a little uncertain who "they" meant. It seemed to include every one but herself.

"Have you a cigarette?" she asked, abruptly.

The boy's heart sank.

"I haven't—I don't smoke. I can get some."

"Don't bother." She looked at him curiously. "You don't smoke—you're a queer kid." They stood alone now, for Adams and Bailey had strolled on. He noticed how transparently thin were her hands, which she tucked in her belt. Her neck had a lovely line in its perfect sweep from the throat down.

"You are an art student?" she asked, with a faint smirk.

"Oh no—I'm on a paper—why?"

"You examine like one."

He flushed with the detection, and she gave a little laugh of triumph.

"Sit down and tell me all about yourself—you puzzle me," she said. "You look as if you'll do all sorts of wonderful things, but people who look like that hardly ever do anything."

He was easier now. They sat side by side on the lounge.

"There's little to tell, Miss—"

"Oh, drop that, I'm Tilly to every one."

"Tilly then,—you see I haven't left school long."

"I can see that—the down's on you yet." The remark hurt him and she saw it, swiftly.

"Don't mind me," she said quietly, putting a hand on his arm. "You see I'm used to men that gloat and want rebuffing."

She laughed at the surprise in John's eyes.

"Don't look like that or I shall melt. You're a nice boy, and I'm afraid of you."

"Of me?"

"Yes—you make me think of lots of things I've given up thinking about. Harry must ask you to tea."

So she was married! Of course she was married, he reflected, he was a fool not to have known from the first.

"I should like very much to come."

She looked at him again, until he looked away, and with a little laugh jumped up. "We must get back now. I'll see you soon. Good-bye!" and she was gone. What an off-hand creature! He was annoyed at her manner. She had treated him like an infant. She had laughed at him. He had let her see too much. When the play was ended and he stood in the crowded vestibule with Bailey, amid the crush of fur-wrapped women and black-coated men, he was still thinking of her.

"You've made a hit with Tilly," said Bailey.

"I!"

"Yes—and she doesn't pay compliments—but don't let her play with you; she doesn't take any one seriously."

"I'm not likely to do that," replied John shortly.

"Come along then—we've to get our work done."

III

Merritt, chief reporter of the Daily Post, was a remarkable little man. He was quite aware of this and retained his reputation with ease. The life of a chief reporter is a desperate one. The most amazing news scoop to-day is dead twenty-four hours later, and a big reputation can be lost in a day's idleness. Merritt showed no signs of anxiety. He sat at his desk in the stuffy little room adjoining the reporting room, whence he would dart out to send a man speeding across London or to Aberdeen. His totally bald head gleamed with vitality. He could be very rude and very rough, but men had rushed to Ireland at his behest and accounted themselves rewarded when he smiled and said "Good!" He was part of the Daily Post and could not conceive how a man could wish to live for anything else. No one ever saw him go home and no one ever saw him come; he was the first and the last, and when he had gone, he was not at rest. His voice often spoke over the wire from Brixton, disturbing the early morning rest of a jaded reporter. A fire at Muswell Hill, a murder in Camden Town, a burglary in Knightsbridge or an assault at Tottenham—he knew of it first, scented the clue, despatched the sleuth-hounds.

It was rumoured that he was married, but for years there was no evidence, until one day he disappeared and returned wearing black. He had buried his eldest boy of twelve. The senior reporter to whom he mentioned this was about to make a remark, and he saw Merritt's mouth twitch, but the next second he was being told of an entry on the diary. It was work, work, work. Other men fell ill, became nervous wrecks, took to drink, were promoted, or left. Merritt remained chief reporter, known from one end of Fleet Street to another, perhaps from one end of the world to the other. He never went out, save at four o'clock for an hour, when he would be seen in a bar near by, within sound of the buses, and he went there for news. He knew every one. Men in the Lobby of the "House," on the Stock Exchange, in Whitehall or at Epsom would ask "How's Merritt?" He was the link to publicity. He knew enough about the lives of men to equip a squad of blackmailers; and K.C.s consulted him when accepting briefs. He had saved a king from assassination and rescued a bishop from a charge of being drunk and disorderly. He had witnessed a succession of editors. Merritt stayed, for Merritt was the Daily Post.

But above all, this stout little man of fifty knew men. It was he who discovered Burton Phipps, their star descriptive writer, had sent him off to Norway to intercept and expose the sham explorer of the Pole. Jane, the finest parliamentary sketch writer in England, was trained under his hands. Merton, the editor of the Morning Telegraph, Layman, the President of the Board of Trade, Reddington, chairman of the United Banks—all had groaned in their youth under his merciless yoke of discipline. Loved and feared, he spared no man, and he never encountered rebellion because he never pitied himself. "Merritt's a devil," every one said—"but a wonderful devil," they added.

He took John in hand. He made him compress a column of wonderful writing to fifteen living lines. He made him re-dress a plain narrative in a style that "tickled." He told John to use words of as few syllables as possible. "All sub-editors are ignorant and full of malice," he said, with traditional jealousy. He was never to worry about what the public thought of this or that. "The public don't think, they follow." It was a heartbreaking apprenticeship. The fine column on the Kennel Show went into the waste paper basket. "There's two murders come in and the subs say we're overset." He ridiculed a "special" on teashop girls with rapier wit, told John he wrote too fast to write well, and was as guileless as an infant in arms. Once, with a brusque committal of a much-esteemed article, he brought misery to John's eyes, saw it, and growled,

"You're a journalist all right, but your stalk's green," and with his wry smile brought a lump into the youth's throat.

"Am I—am I giving satisfaction, Mr. Merritt?"

The chief reporter looked over the top of his glasses—

"The Chief sent you to me for occasional work. You've done a banquet, a dog-show, four police courts, three inquests, two plays, a poster show and several special enquiries. You've been running about like a hare for ten days—you've not been an occasional, but a daily event. And I don't waste my time!"

It was true, John was worked hard every day. Each night the diary had the initials J.D. with a cryptic assignation following. Sometimes he accompanied a senior, a note-taker, and looked out for a descriptive paragraph; more often he was alone. On the night that he had returned from his first play, after he had sent in his pencilled copy to the subs room, he looked at the diary and almost jumped in exultation.—"J.D. 7.15., Artists Union, Chelsea Theatre, half col." Here was his chance!

IV

The members of the Artists Union were certainly artistic. A novelist who specialised in love and divorce in the Sunday newspapers and was dignified with the title of 'publicist' made a long tirade against the ignorant but prosperous industrial classes. A young man followed this, very nerve-racked and bordering on hysteria, with an oration proving that hunger and genius were inseparable, whereupon a stout lady at the back of the diminutive theatre rose up and declared that all artists, musicians, and authors should be a direct charge on the Government, a sentiment that was applauded loudly. Thoroughly enjoying himself, John sat next to a young lady in a gaudy kimono who was busy sketching the speakers, while a young man with a red beard that half hid a very weak mouth, drank tea out of a thermos flask. A wealthy lady, interested in art, occupied the chair, which must have been very uncomfortable, for most of the brilliantly insulting things said applied perfectly to her husband, a wholesale grocer, who, to atone for disfiguring England with placards inciting the public to drink Tiffinson's Tea, bought preposterous modern paintings at well advertised figures. John discovered it was a gathering of minor notabilities; there was Mr. Shandon Gunn, the cubist painter who laboriously disguised the fact that he had ever studied at the Slade School, or knew the meaning of perspective. When slightly drunk, he was reputed to be epigrammatic. His speech was cheered vociferously for its cleverness in conveying absolutely nothing to the audience. He was followed by Mr. Leslie Bumbo, a pallid fellow, the apostle of art with an ego, who wrote art books, and kept a book shop in a slum, which revealed a knowledge of business, since the bookshop kept him. Moreover, he led a culture movement for leisured ladies, who gathered every Wednesday in a shanty at the back of his house, where, in a dim light and a dim voice, he droned out his latest discourses on art. It was remunerative if mournful, for the ladies paid a shilling for admittance, bought the discourses and went home feeling gloriously advanced. His speech this evening was confined to an embroidery on "The Ugly as an incentive to Murder."

John was indebted for personal details to the young lady in the kimono, who called him "kid" and smoked incessantly while she drew. Towards the end of the meeting she waved her hand to a girl who had pushed forward in the crowded doorway. John looked and, with a slight thrill of pleasure, recognised Tilly. In the conversazione that ensued when the formal meeting ended, they sat in a corner together and drank coffee. She knew everybody and introduced him freely as "Scissors." When the company was going, Tilly, who had collected a small crowd, caught hold of John's arm.

"Come along, Scissors!" she cried, propelling him towards the door.

"Where?" he asked.

"To my studio—we're having a romp."

"But I can't go—I've to get my copy ready for the office."

"Oh damn!"