Scoop by Evelyn Waugh, from Project Gutenberg Canada (2025)

by Evelyn Waugh

For Laura

Table of Contents

Preface
Book One. The Stitch Service
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Book Two. Stones £20
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Book Three. Banquet
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three

SCOOP

Preface

This light-hearted tale was the fruit of a time of general anxiety anddistress but, for its author, one of peculiar personal happiness.

Its earlier editions bore the subtitle: 'A novel about journalists'.This now seems superfluous. Foreign correspondents, at the time thisstory was written, enjoyed an unprecedented and undeserved fame. Otherminor themes, then topical, are out of date, in particular the'ideological war', although some parallels to it might still be found inthe Far East.

At the time of writing public interest had just been diverted fromAbyssinia to Spain. I tried to arrange a combination of these two wars.Of the later I knew nothing at first hand. In Abyssinia I had served asthe foreign correspondent of an English daily paper. I had no talent forthis work but I joyfully studied the eccentricities and excesses of mycolleagues. The geographical position of Ishmaelia, though not itspolitical constitution, is identical with that of Abyssinia and thedescription of life among the journalists in Jacksonburg is very closeto Addis Ababa in 1935.

The most anachronistic part is the domestic scene of Boot Magna. Thereare today pale ghosts of Lord Copper, Lady Metroland and Mrs Stitch.Nothing survives of the Boots. Younger readers must accept my assurancethat such people and their servants did exist quite lately and are notpure fantasy. They will also find the sums of money recorded here verymeagre and must greatly multiply them to appreciate the varioustransactions.

E. W.
Combe Florey 1963

Book One
The Stitch Service

Chapter One

While still a young man, John Courteney Boot had, as his publisherproclaimed, 'achieved an assured and enviable position in contemporaryletters'. His novels sold fifteen thousand copies in their first yearand were read by the people whose opinion John Boot respected. Betweennovels he kept his name sweet in intellectual circles with unprofitablebut modish works on history and travel. His signed first editionssometimes changed hands at a shilling or two above their original price.He had published eight books--(beginning with a life of Rimbaud writtenwhen he was eighteen, and concluding, at the moment, with Waste ofTime, a studiously modest description of some harrowing months amongthe Patagonian Indians)--of which most people who lunched with LadyMetroland could remember the names of three or four. He had manycharming friends of whom the most valued was the lovely Mrs AlgernonStitch.

Like all in her circle John Boot habitually brought his difficulties toher for solution. It was with this purpose, on a biting-cold mid-Junemorning, that he crossed the Park and called at her house (a superbcreation by Nicholas Hawksmoor modestly concealed in a cul-de-sac nearSaint James's Palace).

Algernon Stitch was standing in the hall; his bowler hat was on hishead; his right hand, grasping a crimson, royally emblazoned despatchcase, emerged from the left sleeve of his overcoat; his other handburrowed petulantly in his breast pocket. An umbrella under his left armfurther inconvenienced him. He spoke indistinctly, for he was holding afolded copy of the morning paper between his teeth.

'Can't get it on,' he seemed to say.

The man who had opened the door came to his assistance, removed theumbrella and despatch case and laid them on the marble table; removedthe coat and held it behind his master. John took the newspaper.

'Thanks. Thanks very much. Much obliged. Come to see Julia, eh?'

From high overhead, down the majestic curves of the great staircase,came a small but preternaturally resonant voice.

'Try not to be late for dinner, Algy; the Kents are coming.'

'She's upstairs,' said Stitch. He had his coat on now and looked fullyan English cabinet minister; long and thin, with a long, thin nose, andlong, thin moustaches; the ideal model for continental caricaturists.'You'll find her in bed,' he said.

'Your speech reads very well this morning.' John was always polite toStitch; everybody was; Labour members loved him.

'Speech? Mine? Ah. Reads well, eh? Sounded terrible to me. Thanks allthe same. Thanks very much. Much obliged.'

So Stitch went out to the Ministry of Imperial Defence and John went upto see Julia.

As her husband had told him, she was still in bed although it was pasteleven o'clock. Her normally mobile face encased in clay was rigid andmenacing as an Aztec mask. But she was not resting. Her secretary, MissHolloway, sat at her side with account books, bills and correspondence.With one hand Mrs Stitch was signing cheques; with the other she heldthe telephone to which, at the moment, she was dictating details of thecostumes for a charity ballet. An elegant young man at the top of astep-ladder was painting ruined castles on the ceiling. Josephine, theeight year old Stitch prodigy, sat on the foot of the bed construing herday's passage of Virgil. Mrs Stitch's maid, Brittling, was reading herthe clues of the morning crossword. She had been hard at it sincehalf-past seven.

Josephine rose from her lesson to kick John as he entered. 'Boot,' shesaid savagely, 'Boot' catching him first on one knee cap, then on theother. It was a joke of long standing.

Mrs Stitch turned her face of clay, in which only the eyes gave asuggestion of welcome, towards her visitor.

'Come in,' she said, 'I'm just going out. Why twenty pounds to MrsBeaver?'

'That was for Lady Jean's wedding present,' said Miss Holloway.

'I must have been insane. About the lion's head for the centurion'sbreastplate; there's a beautiful one over the gate of a house nearSalisbury, called Twisbury Manor; copy that as near as you can; ring upCountry Life and ask for "back numbers", there was a photograph of itabout two years ago. You're putting too much ivy on the turret, Arthur;the owl won't show up unless you have him on the bare stone and I'mparticularly attached to the owl. Munera, darling, like tumtiddy;always a short a in neuter plurals. It sounds like an anagram; see if"Terracotta" fits. I'm delighted to see you, John. Where have youbeen? You can come and buy carpets with me; I've found a new shop inBethnal Green, kept by a very interesting Jew who speaks no English; themost extraordinary things keep happening to his sister. Why should I goto Viola Chasm's Distressed Area; did she come to my Model Madhouse?'

'Oh, yes, Mrs Stitch.'

'Then I suppose it means two guineas. I absolutely loved Waste ofTime. We read it aloud at Blackewell. The headless abbot is grand.'

'Headless abbot?'

'Not in Wasters. On Arthur's ceiling. I put it in the Prime Minister'sbedroom.'

'Did he read it?'

'Well I don't think he reads much.'

'Terracotta is too long, madam, and there is no r.'

'Try hottentot. It's that kind of word. I can never do anagrams unless Ican see them. No Twisbury, you must have heard of it.'

'Floribus Austrum,' Josephine chanted, 'perditus et liquidis immisifontibus apros; having been lost with flowers in the South and sent intothe liquid fountains; apros is wild boars but I couldn't quite makesense of that bit.'

'We'll do it tomorrow. I've got to go out now. Is "hottentot" any use?'

'No h, madam,' said Brittling with ineffable gloom.

'Oh, dear. I must look at it in my bath. I shall only be ten minutes.Stay and talk to Josephine.'

She was out of bed and out of the room. Brittling followed. MissHolloway collected the cheques and papers. The young man on the ladderdabbed away industriously. Josephine rolled to the head of the bed andstared up at him.

'It's very banal, isn't it, Boot?'

'I like it very much.'

'Do you? I think all Arthur's work is banal. I read your book Waste ofTime.'

'Ah.' John did not invite criticism.

'I thought it very banal.'

'You seem to find everything banal.'

'It is a new word whose correct use I have only lately learnt,' saidJosephine with dignity. 'I find it applies to nearly everything; Virgiland Miss Brittling and my gymnasium.'

'How is the gymnasium going?'

'I am by far the best of my class although there are several girls olderthan me and two middle-class boys.'

When Mrs Stitch said ten minutes, she meant ten minutes. Sharp on timeshe was back, dressed for the street; her lovely face, scraped clean ofclay, was now alive with interest.

'Sweet Josephine, has Mr Boot been boring you?'

'It was all right really. I did most of the talking.'

'Show him your imitation of the Prime Minister.'

'No.'

'Sing him your Neapolitan song.'

'No.'

'Stand on your head. Just once for Mr Boot.'

'No.'

'Oh dear. Well we must go at once if we are to get to Bethnal Green andback before luncheon. The traffic's terrible.'

Algernon Stitch went to his office in a sombre and rather antiquatedDaimler; Julia always drove herself, in the latest model ofmass-produced, baby car; brand-new twice a year, painted an invariablebrilliant black, tiny and glossy as a midget's funeral hearse. Shemounted the kerb and bowled rapidly along the pavement to the corner ofSt James's, where a policeman took her number and ordered her into theroad.

'Third time this week,' said Mrs Stitch. 'I wish they wouldn't. It'ssuch a nuisance for Algy.'

Once embedded in the traffic block, she stopped the engine and turnedher attention to the crossword.

'It's "detonated",' she said, filling it in.

East wind swept the street, carrying with it the exhaust-gas of ahundred motors and coarse particles of Regency stucco from a once decentNash façade that was being demolished across the way. John shivered andrubbed some grit further into his eye. Eight minutes close applicationwas enough to finish the puzzle. Mrs Stitch folded the paper and tossedit over her shoulder into the back seat; looked about her resentfully atthe stationary traffic.

'This is too much,' she said; started the engine, turned sharp againonto the kerb and proceeded to Piccadilly, driving before her at a briskpace, until he took refuge on the step of Brook's, a portly, bald youngman; when he reached safety, he turned to remonstrate, recognized MrsStitch, and bowed profoundly to the tiny, black back as it shot thecorner of Arlington Street. 'One of the things I like about these absurdcars,' she said, 'is that you can do things with them that you couldn'tdo in a real one.'

From Hyde Park Corner to Piccadilly Circus the line of traffic wascontinuous and motionless, still as a photograph, unbroken andundisturbed save at a few strategic corners where barricaded navvies,like desperate outposts of some proletarian defence, were rending theroad with mechanical drills, mining for the wires and tubes thatcontrolled the life of the city.

'I want to get away from London,' said John Boot.

'So it's come to that? All on account of your American girl?'

'Well, mostly.'

'I warned you, before you began. Is she being frightful?'

'My lips are sealed. But I've got to get far away or else go crazy.'

'To my certain knowledge she's driven three men into the bin. Where areyou going?'

'That's just what I wanted to talk about.'

The line of cars jerked forwards for ten yards and again came to rest.The lunch-time edition of the evening papers was already on the streets;placards announcing

were fluttering in the east wind.

'Ishmaelia seems to be the place. I was wondering if Algy would send methere as a spy.'

'Not a chance.'

'No?'

'Foregonners. Algy's been sacking ten spies a day for weeks. It's agrossly overcrowded profession. Why don't you go as a warcorrespondent?'

'Could you fix it?'

'I don't see why not. After all you've been to Patagonia. I should thinkthey would jump at you. You're sure you really want to go?'

'Quite sure.'

'Well, I'll see what I can do. I'm meeting Lord Copper at lunch today atMargot's. I'll try and bring the subject up.'

****

When Lady Metroland said half-past one she meant ten minutes to two. Itwas precisely at this time, simultaneously with her hostess, that MrsStitch arrived (having been obliged by press of traffic to leave herlittle car in a garage half way to Bethnal Green, and return to CurzonStreet by means of the Underground railway). Lord Copper, however, whonormally lunched at one, was waiting with some impatience. Various menand women who appeared to know one another intimately and did not knowLord Copper, had been admitted from time to time and had disregardedhim. His subordinates at the Megalopolitan Newspaper Corporation wouldhave been at difficulties to recognize the uneasy figure which stood upeach time the door was opened and sat down again unnoticed. He was astranger in these parts; it was a thoughtless benefaction to one of LadyMetroland's charities that had exposed him, in the middle of a busy day,to this harrowing experience; he would readily, now, have doubled thesum to purchase his release. Thus when Mrs Stitch directed upon him someof her piercing shafts of charm she found him first numb, then dazzled,then extravagantly receptive.

From the moment of her entrance the luncheon party was transformed forLord Copper; he had gotten a new angle on it. He knew of Mrs Stitch;from time to time he had seen her in the distance; now for the firsttime he found himself riddled through and through, mesmerized,inebriated. Those at the table, witnessing the familiar process, beganto conjecture in tones which Lord Copper was too much entranced tooverhear, what Julia could possibly want of him. 'It's her modelmadhouse,' said some; 'she wants the caricaturists to lay off Algy,'said others; 'Been losing money,' thought the second footman (at LadyMetroland's orders he was on diet and lunch-time always found him in acynical mood); 'a job for someone or other,' came nearest the truth, butno one thought of John Courteney Boot until Mrs Stitch brought him intothe conversation. Then they all played up loyally.

'You know,' she said, after coaxing Lord Copper into an uncompromisingdenunciation of the Prime Minister's public and private honesty, 'Iexpect he's all you say, but he's a man of far more taste than you'dsuppose. He always sleeps with a Boot by his bed.'

'A boot?' asked Lord Copper, trustful but a little bewildered.

'One of John Boot's books.'

The luncheon party had got their cue.

'Dear John Boot,' said Lady Metroland, 'so clever and amusing. I wishI could get him to come and see me more often.'

'Such a divine style,' said Lady Cockpurse.

The table buzzed with praise of John Boot. It was a new name to LordCopper. He resolved to question his literary secretary on the subject.He had become Boot-conscious.

Mrs Stitch changed her ground and began to ask him in the mostflattering way about the chances of peace in Ishmaelia. Lord Copper gaveit as his opinion that civil war was inevitable. Mrs Stitch remarked howfew of the famous war correspondents still survived.

'Isn't there one called Sir Something Hitchcock?' asked Lady Cockpurse.(This was a false step since the knight in question had lately left LordCopper's service, after an acrimonious dispute about the date of thebattle of Hastings, and had transferred to the Daily Brute camp.)

'Who will you be sending to Ishmaelia?' asked Mrs Stitch.

'I am in consultation with my editors on the subject. We think it a verypromising little war. A microcosm as you might say of world drama. Wepropose to give it fullest publicity. The workings of a greatnewspaper,' said Lord Copper; feeling at last thoroughly Rotarian, 'areof a complexity which the public seldom appreciates. The citizen littlerealizes the vast machinery put into motion for him in exchange for hismorning penny.' ('Oh God,' said Lady Metroland, faintly but audibly.)'We shall have our naval, military and air experts, our squad ofphotographers, our colour reporters, covering the war from every angleand on every front.'

'Yes,' said Mrs Stitch. 'Yes, yes. I suppose you will... If I wereyou I should send someone like Boot. I don't suppose you could persuadehim to go, but someone like him.'

'It has been my experience, dear Mrs Stitch, that the Daily Beast cancommand the talent of the world. Only last week the Poet Laureate wroteus an ode to the seasonal fluctuation of our net sales. We splashed iton the middle page. He admitted it was the most poetic and highly paidwork he had ever done.'

'Well, of course, if you could get him, Boot is your man. He's abrilliant writer, he's travelled everywhere and knows the wholeIshmaelite situation inside out.'

'Boot would be divine,' said Lady Cockpurse loyally.

Half an hour later Mrs Stitch rang up to say 'O.K., John. I think it'sfixed. Don't take a penny less than fifty pounds a week.'

'God bless you, Julia. You've saved my life.'

'It's just the Stitch Service,' said Mrs Stitch cheerfully.

****

That evening Mr Salter, foreign editor of the Beast, was summoned todinner at his chief's country seat at East Finchley. It was a highlyunwelcome invitation; Mr Salter normally worked at the office until nineo'clock. That evening he had planned a holiday at the opera; he and hiswife had been looking forward to it with keen enjoyment for some weeks.As he drove out to Lord Copper's frightful mansion he thought sadly ofthose carefree days when he had edited the Woman's Page, or, betterstill, when he had chosen the jokes for one of Lord Copper's comicweeklies. It was the policy of the Megalopolitan to keep the staff alertby constant changes of occupation. Mr Salter's ultimate ambition was totake charge of the Competitions. Meanwhile he was Foreign Editor andfound it a dog's life.

The two men dined alone. They ate parsley soup, whiting, roast veal,cabinet pudding; they drank whisky and soda. Lord Copper explainedNazism, Fascism and Communism; later, in his ghastly library, heoutlined the situation in the Far East. 'The Beast stands for strongmutually antagonistic governments everywhere,' he said. 'Selfsufficiency at home, self assertion abroad.'

Mr Salter's side of the conversation was limited to expressions ofassent. When Lord Copper was right, he said, 'Definitely, Lord Copper';when he was wrong, 'Up to a point.'

'Let me see, what's the name of the place I mean? Capital of Japan?Yokohama, isn't it?'

'Up to a point, Lord Copper.'

'And Hong Kong belongs to us, doesn't it?'

'Definitely, Lord Copper.'

After a time: 'Then there's this civil war in Ishmaelia. I propose tofeature it. Who did you think of sending?'

'Well, Lord Copper, the choice seems between sending a staff reporterwho will get the news but whose name the public doesn't know, or to getsomeone from outside with a name as a military expert. You see since welost Hitchcock...'

'Yes, yes. He was our only man with a European reputation. I know.Zinc will be sending him. I know. But he was wrong about the battle ofHastings. It was 1066. I looked it up. I won't employ a man who isn'tbig enough to admit when he's wrong.'

'We might share one of the Americans?'

'No, I tell you who I want; Boot.'

'Boot?'

'Yes, Boot. He's a young man whose work I'm very much interested in. Hehas the most remarkable style and he's been in Patagonia and the PrimeMinister keeps his books by his bed. Do you read him?'

'Up to a point, Lord Copper.'

'Well get onto him tomorrow. Have him up to see you. Be cordial. Takehim out to dinner. Get him at any price. Well, at any reasonable price,'he added for there had lately been a painful occurrence wheninstructions of this kind, given in an expansive mood, had been tooliterally observed and a trick-cyclist who had momentarily attractedLord Copper's attention, had been engaged to edit the Sports Page on afive years' contract at five thousand a year.

****

Mr Salter went to work at mid-day. He found the Managing Editor cast ingloom.

'It's a terrible paper this morning,' he said. 'We paid ProfessorJellaby thirty guineas for the feature article and there's not a word init one can understand. Beaten by the Brute in every edition on the ZooMercy Slaying story. And look at the Sports Page.'

Together, in shame, the two men read the trick-cyclist's Sports Page.

'Who's Boot?' asked Mr Salter at last.

'I know the name,' said the Managing Editor.

'The chief wants to send him to Ishmaelia. He's the Prime Minister'sfavourite writer.'

'Not the chap I was thinking of,' said the Managing Editor.

'Well, I've got to find him.' He listlessly turned the pages of themorning paper. 'Boot,' he said. 'Boot. Boot. Boot. Why! Boot--here heis. Why didn't the chief say he was a staff man?'

At the back of the paper, ignominiously sandwiched between Pip and Pop,the Bedtime Pets, and the recipe for a dish named 'Waffle Scramble,' laythe twice-weekly half-column devoted to Nature: LUSH PLACES edited byWilliam Boot, Countryman.

'Do you suppose that's the right one?'

'Sure of it. The Prime Minister is nuts on rural England.'

'He's supposed to have a particularly high-class style: 'Feather-footedthrough the plashy fen passes the questing vole'... would that beit?'

'Yes,' said the Managing Editor. 'That must be good style. At least itdoesn't sound like anything else to me. I know the name well now youmention it. Never seen the chap. I don't think he's ever been to London.Sends his stuff in by post. All written out in pen and ink.'

'I've got to ask him to dinner.'

'Give him cider.'

'Is that what countrymen like?'

'Yes, cider and tinned salmon is the staple diet of the agriculturalclasses.'

'I'll send him a telegram. Funny the chief wanting to send him toIshmaelia.'

Chapter Two

'Change and decay in all around I see,' sang Uncle Theodore, gazing outof the morning-room window. Thus, with startling loudness, he wasaccustomed to relieve his infrequent fits of depression; but decay,rather than change, was characteristic of the immediate prospect.

The immense trees which encircled Boot Magna Hall, shaded its drives andrides, and stood (tastefully disposed at the whim of some forgotten,provincial predecessor of Repton), single and in groups about the park,had suffered, some from ivy, some from lightning, some from the variousmalignant disorders that vegetation is heir to, but all, principally,from old age. Some were supported with trusses and crutches of iron,some were filled with cement; some, even now, in June, could show only ahandful of green leaves at their extremities. Sap ran thin and slow; agusty night always brought down a litter of dead timber.

The lake was moved by strange tides. Sometimes, as at the presentmoment, it sank to a single, opaque pool in a wilderness of mud andrushes; sometimes it rose and inundated five acres of pasture. There hadonce been an old man in one of the lodges who understood the workings ofthe water system; there were sluice gates hidden among the reeds, andmanholes, dotted about in places known only to him, furnished with tapsand cocks; the man had been able to control an ornamental cascade anddraw a lofty jet of water from the mouth of the dolphin on the Southterrace. But he had been in his grave fifteen years and the secret haddied with him.

The house was large but by no means too large for the Boot family, whichat this time numbered eight. There were in the direct line: William whoowned the house and estate, William's sister Priscilla who claimed toown the horses, William's widowed mother who owned the contents of thehouse and exercised ill-defined rights over the flower garden, andWilliam's widowed grandmother who was said to own 'the money'. No oneknew how much she possessed; she had been bed-ridden as long asWilliam's memory went back. It was from her that such large chequesissued as were from time to time necessary for balancing the estateaccounts and paying for Uncle Theodore's occasional, disastrous visitsto London. Uncle Theodore, the oldest of the male collaterals, was byfar the gayest. Uncle Roderick was in many ways the least eccentric. Hehad managed the estates and household throughout William's minority andcontinued to do so with a small but regular deficit which was made upannually by one of grandmama's cheques. The widowed Lady Trilby wasWilliam's Great-Aunt Anne, his father's elder sister; she owned themotor-car, a vehicle adapted to her own requirements; it had a hornwhich could be worked from the back seat; her weekly journey to churchresounded through the village like the Coming of the Lord. Uncle Bernarddevoted himself to a life of scholarship but had received little generalrecognition, for his researches, though profound, were narrow, beingconnected solely with his own pedigree. He had traced William's descentthrough three different lines from Ethelred the Unready and only lack offunds fortunately prevented him from prosecuting a claim to the abeyantbarony of de Butte.

All the Boots, in one way or another, had about a hundred a year each aspocket money. It was therefore convenient for them to live together atBoot Magna, where wages and household expenses were counted in withUncle Roderick's annual deficit. The richest member of the household, inready cash, was Nannie Bloggs, who had been bed-ridden for the lastthirty years; she kept her savings in a red flannel bag under thebolster. Uncle Theodore made attempts on them from time to time, but shewas a sharp old girl and, since she combined a long standing aversion toUncle Theodore with a preternatural aptitude for bringing off showydoubles during the flat racing season, her hoard continued to grow. TheBible and the Turf Guide were her only reading. She got great delightfrom telling each member of the family, severally and secretly, that heor she was her heir.

In other rooms about the house reposed: Nannie Price, ten years thejunior of Nannie Bloggs, and bed-ridden from about the same age. Shegave her wages to Chinese Missions and had little influence in thehouse; Sister Watts, old Mrs Boot's first nurse, and Sister Sampson, hersecond: Miss Scope, Aunt Anne's governess, veteran invalid, of someyears seniority in bed to old Mrs Boot herself: and Bentinck the butler:James, the first footman, had been confined to his room for some time,but he was able on warm days to sit in an armchair at the window. NurseGranger was still on her feet, but as her duties included the charge ofall eight sick-rooms, it was thought she would not long survive. Tenservants waited upon the household and upon one another, but in adesultory fashion, for they could spare very little time from the fivemeat meals which tradition daily allowed them. In the circumstances theBoots did not entertain and were indulgently spoken of in the districtas being 'poor as church mice'.

The fashionable John Courteney Boot was a remote cousin, or, as UncleBernard preferred, the member of a cadet branch. William had never methim; he had met very few people indeed. It was not true to say, as theManaging Editor of the Beast had said, that he had never been toLondon, but his visits had been infrequent enough for each to bedistinct and perennially horrifying in his memory.

'Change and decay in all around I see,' sang Uncle Theodore. It was hishabit to sing the same line over and over again. He was waiting for themorning papers. So were William and Uncle Roderick. They were brought bythe butcher, often blotched with red, any time between eleven andmid-day, and then, if not intercepted, disappeared among the sick-roomsto return at tea-time hopelessly mutilated, for both Bentinck and oldMrs Boot kept scrap-books, and Sister Sampson had the habit of cuttingout coupons and losing them in the bedclothes. This morning they werelate. It was a matter of great anxiety to William.

He had never been to the Megalopolitan offices or met anyone connectedwith the Beast. His job as author of Lush Places had been passed onto him by the widow on the death of its previous holder, the Rector ofBoot Magna. He had carefully modelled his style on the late Rector's, atfirst painfully, now almost without effort. The work was of the utmostimportance to him: he was paid a guinea a time and it gave him the bestpossible excuse for remaining uninterruptedly in the country.

And now it was in danger. On the previous Thursday a very dreadful thinghad happened. Drawing on the observations of a lifetime and after duecross-examination of the head keeper and half an hour with theencyclopaedia, William had composed a lyrical but wholly accurateaccount of the habits of the badger; one of his more finished essays.Priscilla in a playful mood had found the manuscript, and altered it,substituting for 'badger' throughout 'the great crested grebe'. It wasnot until Saturday morning when, in this form, it appeared in theBeast, that William was aware of the outrage.

His mail had been prodigious; some correspondents were sceptical, othersderisive; one lady wrote to ask whether she read him aright in thinkinghe condoned the practice of baiting these rare and beautiful birds withterriers and deliberately destroying their earthly homes; how could thisbe tolerated in the so-called twentieth century? A major in Waleschallenged him categorically to produce a single authenticated case of agreat crested grebe attacking young rabbits. It had been exceedinglypainful. All through the week-end William had awaited his dismissal butMonday and Tuesday passed without a word from the Beast. He composedand despatched a light dissertation on water voles and expected theworst. Perhaps the powers at the Beast were too much enraged even tosend back his manuscript; when Wednesday's paper came he would findanother tenant of Lush Places. It came. He hunted frantically for hishalf-column. It was there, a green oasis between Waffle Scramble and theBedtime Pets. 'Feather-footed through the plashy fen passes thequesting vole...' It was all right. By some miracle Saturday's shamehad been covered.

His uncles peevishly claimed the paper; he surrendered it readily. Hestood at the french window blinking at the summer landscape; the horsesat grass beyond the ha-ha skipped and frolicked.

'Confound the thing,' said Uncle Roderick behind him. 'Can't find thecricket anywhere. Whole page seems to be given up to some damn-foolcycling championship at Cricklewood Stadium.'

William did not care. In the fullness of his gratitude he resolved togive rodents a miss that Saturday (though he was particularly attachedto them) and write instead of wild flowers and birdsong. He might evenrisk something out of the poets.

'Nay not so much as out of bed?
When all the birds have Matins said,'

he sang, in his heart, to the recumbent figures above him. And then,wheezing heavily, with crumbs on his mouth, ponderously straddlingacross the morning-room, came Troutbeck, the aged 'boy', bearing atelegram. Curiosity and resentment contended for mastery in Troutbeck'sdemeanour; curiosity because telegrams were of rare occurrence at BootMagna; resentment at the interruption of his 'elevenses'--a lavish andruminative feast which occupied the servants' hall from ten-thirty untilnoon.

William's face quickly reassured him that he had not been called fromthe table on any frivolous pretext. 'Bad news,' he was able to report.'Shocking bad news for Master William.'

'It couldn't hardly be a death,' said the third housemaid, 'All thefamily's here.'

'Whatever it was we shall soon know,' said Troutbeck. 'It struck MasterWilliam all of a heap. Might I thank you to pass the chutney.'

Bad news indeed! Oblivious of the sunshine and the grazing horses andthe stertorous breathing of his Uncle Theodore, William re-read thefrightful doom that had fallen on him.

REQUEST YOUR IMMEDIATE PRESENCE HERE URGENT LORD COPPERS PERSONAL DESIRE SALTER BEAST.

'Nothing serious, I hope!' said Uncle Theodore, to whom telegrams, inthe past, had from time to time brought news as disquieting as to anyman living.

'Yes,' said William, 'I have been called to London.'

'Have you, my boy? That's interesting. I was thinking of running up fora night myself...'

But Uncle Theodore was speaking to the air. William was already at work,setting into motion the elaborate household machinery which would, toosoon, effect his departure.

****

After an early luncheon, William went to say goodbye to his grandmother.She looked at him with doleful, mad eyes. 'Going to London, eh? Well Ihardly suppose I shall be alive when you return. Wrap up warm, dear.' Itwas eternal winter in Mrs Boot's sunny bedroom.

All the family who had the use of their legs attended on the steps tosee William off; Priscilla bathed in tears of penitence. Nannie Bloggssent him down three golden sovereigns. Aunt Anne's motor-car was thereto take him away. At the last moment Uncle Theodore attempted to get inat the off side, but was detected and deterred. 'Just wanted to see achap in Jermyn Street about some business,' he said wistfully.

It was always a solemn thing for a Boot to go to London; solemn as afuneral for William on this afternoon. Once or twice on the way to thestation, once or twice as the train stopped on the route to Paddington,William was tempted to give up the expedition in despair. Why should hecommit himself to this abominable city merely to be railed at and, forall he knew of Lord Copper's temperament, physically assaulted? Butsterner counsels prevailed. He might bluff it out. Lord Copper was atownsman, a provincial townsman at that, and certainly did not know thedifference between a badger and a great crested grebe. It was William'sword against a few cantankerous correspondents and people who wrote tothe newspapers were proverbially unbalanced. By the time he reachedWestbury he had sketched out a little scene for himself, in which hestood resolutely in the boardroom defying the doctrinaire zoology ofFleet Street; every inch a Boot, thrice descended from Ethelred theUnready, rightful 15th Baron de Butte, haughty as a chieftain, honest asa peasant. 'Lord Copper,' he was saying. 'No man shall call me a liarunchastised. The great crested grebe does hibernate.'

He went to the dining-car and ordered some whisky. The steward said'We're serving teas. Whisky after Reading.' After Reading he triedagain. 'We're serving dinners. I'll bring you one to your carriage.'When it came, William spilled it down his tie. He gave the steward oneof Nannie Bloggs's sovereigns in mistake for a shilling. It wascontemptuously refused and everyone in the carriage stared at him. A manin a bowler hat said, 'May I look? Don't often see one of them nowadays.Tell you what I'll do, I'll toss you for it. Call.'

William said 'Heads.'

'Tails it is,' said the man in the bowler hat, putting it in hiswaistcoat pocket. He then went on reading his paper and everyone staredharder at William. His spirits began to sink; the mood of defiancepassed. It was always the way; the moment he left the confines of BootMagna he found himself in a foreign and hostile world. There was a trainback at ten o'clock that night. Wild horses would not keep him from it.He would see Lord Copper, explain the situation fully and frankly, throwhimself upon his mercy and, successful or defeated, catch the train atten. By Reading he had worked out this new and humble policy. He wouldtell Lord Copper about Priscilla's tears; great men were proverbiallyvulnerable in appeals of that kind. The man opposite him looked over thetop of his paper. 'Got any more quids?'

'No,' said William.

'Pity.'

At seven he reached Paddington and the atrocious city was all aroundhim.

****

The Megalopolitan building, numbers 700-853 Fleet Street, wasdisconcerting. At first William thought that the taxi driver, spotting abumpkin, had driven him to the wrong address.

His acquaintance with offices was very small. At the time of his comingof age he had spent several mornings with the family solicitor in King'sBench Walk. At home he knew the local Estate Agents and Auctioneers, thebank and the Town Hall. He had once seen in Taunton a barelyintelligible film about newspaper life in New York where neurotic men inshirt sleeves and eye-shades had rushed from telephone to tape machine,insulting and betraying one another in surroundings of unredeemedsqualor. From these memories he had a confused expectation that wasrudely shocked by the Byzantine vestibule and Sassanian lounge of CopperHouse. He thought at first that he must have arrived at some new andless exclusive rival of the R.A.C. Six lifts seemed to be in perpetualmotion; with dazzling frequency their doors flew open to reveal nowleft, now right, now two or three at a time, like driven game, a seriesof girls in Caucasian uniform. 'Going up,' they cried in Punch-and-Judyaccents and before anyone could enter, snapped their doors anddisappeared from view. A hundred or so men and women of all ranks andages passed before William's eyes. The sole stationary objects were achryselephantine effigy of Lord Copper in coronation robes, rising abovethe throng, on a polygonal malachite pedestal, and a concierge, alsomore than life size, who sat in a plate glass enclosure, like a fish inan aquarium, and gazed at the agitated multitude with fishy,supercilious eyes. Under his immediate care were a dozen page boys insky blue uniforms, who between errands pinched one another furtively ona long bench. Medals of more battles than were ever fought by human armsor on earthly fields glittered on the porter's chest. William discovereda small vent in this tank and addressed him diffidently. 'Is hisLordship at home?'

'We have sixteen peers on the staff. Which was you referring to?'

'I wish to see Lord Copper.'

'Ho. Cyril, show this gentleman to a chair and give him a form.'

A minute blue figure led William to a desk and gave him a piece ofpaper. William filled it in. 'Mr Boot wishes to see Lord Copper.Subject: great crested grebes.'

Cyril took the paper to the concierge, who read it, looked searchinglyat William and mouthed, 'Fetch the gentleman.'

William was led forward.

'You wish to see Lord Copper?'

'Yes, please.'

'Ho, no you don't. Not about great crested grebes.'

'And badgers too,' said William. 'It is rather a long story.'

'I'll be bound it is. Tell you what, you go across the street and tellit to Lord Zinc at the Daily Brute office. That'll do just as well,now won't it?'

'I've got an appointment,' said William, and produced his telegram.

The concierge read it thoughtfully, held it up to the light, and said'Ah'; read it again and said: 'What you want to see is Mr Salter. Cyril,give the gentleman another form.'

Five minutes later William found himself in the office of the foreigneditor.

It was an encounter of great embarrassment for both of them. For Williamit was the hour of retribution; he advanced, heavy with guilt, to meetwhatever doom had been decreed for him. Mr Salter had the more activepart. He was under orders to be cordial and spring Lord Copper'sproposal on the poor hick when he had won his confidence by lightconversation and heavy hospitality.

His knowledge of rural life was meagre. He had been born in WestKensington and educated at a large London day-school. When not engagedin one or other capacity in the vast Megalopolitan organization he led alife of blameless domesticity in Welwyn Garden City. His annual holidaywas, more often than not, spent at home; once or twice when Mrs Saltercomplained of being run down, they had visited prosperous resorts on theEast Coast. 'The country', for him, meant what you saw in the trainbetween Liverpool Street and Frinton. If a psycho-analyst, testing hisassociations, had suddenly said to Mr Salter the word 'farm', thesurprising response would have been 'Bang', for he had once been blownup and buried while sheltering in a farm in Flanders. It was his singleintimate association with the soil. It had left him with the obstinatethough admittedly irrational belief that agriculture was something alienand highly dangerous. Normal life, as he saw it, consisted in regularjourneys by electric train, monthly cheques, communal amusements and acosy horizon of slates and chimneys; there was something unEnglish andnot quite right about 'the country', with its solitude and selfsufficiency, its bloody recreations, its darkness and silence andsudden, inexplicable noises; the kind of place where you never know fromone minute to the next that you might not be tossed by a bull orpitch-forked by a yokel or rolled over and broken up by a pack ofhounds.

He had been round the office canvassing opinions about the subjects ofconversation proper to countrymen. 'Mangelwurzels are a safe topic,' hehad been told, 'only you mustn't call them that. It's a subject on whichfarmers are very touchy. Call them roots...'

He greeted William with cordiality. 'Ah, Boot, how are you? Don't thinkI've had the pleasure before. Know your work well of course. Sit down.Have a cigarette or'--had he made a floater?--'or do you prefer yourchurchwarden?'

William took a cigarette. He and Mr Salter sat opposite one another.Between them, on the desk, lay an open atlas in which Mr Salter had beenvainly trying to find Reykjavik.

There was a pause, during which Mr Salter planned a frank and disarmingopening. 'How are your roots, Boot?' It came out wrong.

'How are your boots, root?' he asked.

William, glumly awaiting some fulminating rebuke, started and said, 'Ibeg your pardon?'

'I mean brute,' said Mr Salter.

William gave it up. Mr Salter gave it up. They sat staring at oneanother, fascinated, hopeless. Then:

'How's hunting?' asked Mr Salter, trying a new line. 'Foxes prettyplentiful?'

'Well we stop in the summer, you know.'

'Do you? Everyone away, I suppose?'

Another pause: 'Lot of foot and mouth, I expect,' said Mr Salterhopefully.

'None, I'm thankful to say.'

'Oh.'

Their eyes fell. They both looked at the atlas before them.

'You don't happen to know where Reykjavik is?'

'No.'

'Pity. I hoped you might. No one in the office does.'

'Was that what you wanted to see me about?'

'Oh no, not at all. Quite the contrary.'

Another pause.

William saw what was up. This decent little man had been deputed to sackhim and could not get it out. He came to the rescue. 'I expect you wantto talk about the great crested grebe.'

'Good God, no,' said Mr Salter, with instinctive horror, addingpolitely, 'At least not unless you do.'

'No, not at all,' said William, 'I thought you might want to.'

'Not at all,' said Mr Salter.

'That's all right then.'

'Yes, that's all right...' Desperately: 'I say, how about somezider?'

'Zider?'

'Yes. I expect you feel like a drop of zider about this time, don't you?We'll go out and have some.'

The journalists in the film had been addicted to straight rye. Silentbut wondering William followed the foreign editor. They shared the liftwith a very extraordinary man, bald, young, fleshless as a mummy,dressed in brown and white checks, smoking a cheroot. 'He does theSports page now,' said Mr Salter apologetically, when he was out ofhearing.

In the public house at the corner, where the Beast reporterscongregated, the barmaid took their order with surprise. 'Cider? I'llsee.' Then she produced two bottles of sweet and fizzy liquid. Williamand Mr Salter sipped suspiciously.

'Not quite what you're used to down on the farm, I'm afraid.'

'Well to tell you the truth I don't often drink it. We give it to thehaymakers of course and I sometimes have some of theirs.' Then, fearingthat this might sound snobbish, he added, 'My Uncle Bernard drinks itfor his rheumatism.'

'You're sure you wouldn't sooner have something else?'

'No.'

'You mean you wouldn't?'

'I mean I would.'

'Really?'

'Really; much sooner.'

'Good for you, Garge,' said Mr Salter, and from, that moment a new, morehuman note was apparent in their relationship; conversation was stillfar from easy but they had this bond in common, that neither of themliked cider.

Mr Salter clung to it strenuously. 'Interesting you don't like cider,'he said. 'Neither do I.'

'No,' said William. 'I never have since I was sick as a small boy, inthe hay field.'

'It upsets me inside.'

'Exactly.'

'Now whisky never did anyone any harm.'

'No.'

Interest seemed to flag. Mr Salter tried once more. 'Make much parsnipwine down your way?'

'Not much...' It was clearly his turn now. He sipped and thought andfinally said: 'Pretty busy at the office I expect?'

'Yes, very.'

'Tell me--I've often wondered--do you keep a machine of your own or sendout to the printers.'

'We have machines of our own.'

'Do you? They must work jolly fast.'

'Yes.'

'I mean, you have to get it written and printed and corrected andeverything, all on the same day, otherwise the news would become stale.People would have heard it on the wireless, I mean.'

'Yes.'

'D'you do much of the printing yourself?'

'No. You see I'm the foreign editor.'

'I suppose that's why you wanted to find Reyjkavik.'

'Yes.'

'Jolly difficult knowing where all these places are.'

'Yes.'

'So many of them I mean.'

'Yes.'

'Never been abroad myself.'

This seemed too good an opening to be missed. 'Would you like to go toIshmaelia?'

'No.'

'Not at all?'

'Not at all. For one thing I couldn't afford the fare.'

'Oh, we would pay the fare,' said Mr Salter, laughing indulgently.

So that was it. Transportation. The sense of persecution which hadhaunted William for the last three hours took palpable and grotesqueshape before him. It was too much. Conscious of a just cause and a freesoul he rose and defied the nightmare. 'Really,' he said, in ringingtones, 'I call that a bit thick. I admit I slipped up on the greatcrested grebe, slipped up badly. As it happened it was not my fault. Icame here prepared to explain, apologize and, if need be, makereparation. You refused to listen to me. "Good God, no" you said, when Ioffered to explain. And now you calmly propose to ship me out of thecountry because of a trifling and, in my opinion, justifiable error. Whodoes Lord Copper think he is? The mind boggles at the vanity of the man.If he chooses to forget my eighteen months' devoted and unremittinglabour in his service, he is, I admit, entitled to dismiss me...'

'Boot, Boot old man,' cried Mr Salter. 'You've got this all wrong. Withthe possible exception of the Prime Minister, you have no more ardentadmirer than Lord Copper. He wants you to work for him in Ishmaelia.'

'Would he pay my fare back?'

'Yes, of course.'

'Oh, that's rather different.... Even so it seems a silly sort ofscheme. I mean, how will it look in Lush Places when I start writingabout sandstorms and lions and whatever they have in Ishmaelia? Notlush, I mean.'

'Let me tell you about it at dinner.'

They took a taxicab down Fleet Street and the Strand to the grill roomwhere the Beast staff always entertained when they were doing so atthe paper's expense.

'Do you really want tinned salmon?'

'No.'

'Sure?'

'Quite sure.'

Mr Salter regarded his guest with renewed approval and handed him themenu.

The esteem William had won by his distaste for cider and tinned salmon,survived the ordering of dinner. William did not, as had seemed only toolikely, demand pickled walnuts and Cornish pasties; nor did he, like theBuda-Pest correspondent whom Mr Salter had last entertained in his room,draw attention to himself by calling for exotic Magyar dishes and, onfinding no one qualified to make them, insist on preparing for himself,with chafing dish and spirit lamp, before a congregation of puzzledwaiters, a nauseous sauce of sweet peppers, honey and almonds. Heordered a mixed grill and while he was eating Mr Salter attempted,artfully, to kindle his enthusiasm for the new project.

'See that man there, that's Pappenhacker.'

William looked and saw.

'Yes?'

'The cleverest man in Fleet Street.'

William looked again. Pappenhacker was young and swarthy, with greathorn goggles and a receding stubbly chin. He was having an altercationwith some waiters.

'Yes?'

'He's going to Ishmaelia for The Twopence.'

'He seems to be in a very bad temper.'

'Not really. He's always like that to waiters. You see he's a communist.Most of the staff of The Twopence are--they're University men, yousee. Pappenhacker says that every time you are polite to a proletarianyou are helping to bolster up the capitalist system. He's very clever ofcourse, but he gets rather unpopular.'

'He looks as if he were going to hit them.'

'Yes, he does sometimes. Quite a lot of restaurants won't have him in.You see, you'll meet a lot of interesting people when you go toIshmaelia.'

'Mightn't it be rather dangerous?'

Mr Salter smiled; to him, it was as though an Arctic explorer hadexpressed a fear that the weather might turn cold. 'Nothing to what youare used to in the country,' he said. 'You'll be surprised to find howfar the war correspondents keep from the fighting. Why Hitchcockreported the whole Abyssinia campaign from Asmara and gave us some ofthe most colourful, eyewitness stuff we ever printed. In any case yourlife will be insured by the paper for five thousand pounds. No, no,Boot, I don't think you need to worry about risk.'

'And you'd go on paying me my wages?'

'Certainly.'

'And my fare there and back, and my expenses?'

'Yes.'

William thought the matter over carefully. At length he said: 'No.'

'No?'

'No. It's very kind of you but I think I would sooner not go. I don'tlike the idea at all.' He looked at his watch. 'I must be going toPaddington soon to catch my train.'

'Listen,' said Mr Salter. 'I don't think you have fully understood thesituation. Lord Copper is particularly interested in your work and, tobe frank, he insists on your going. We are willing to pay a very fairsalary. Fifty pounds a week was the sum suggested.'

'Gosh,' said William.

'And think what you can make on your expenses,' urged Mr Salter. 'Atleast another twenty. I happened to see Hitchcock's expense sheet whenhe was working for us in Shanghai. He charged three hundred pounds forcamels alone.'

'But I don't think I shall know what to do with a camel.'

Mr Salter saw he was not making his point clear. 'Take a singleexample,' he said. 'Supposing you want to have dinner. Well, you go to arestaurant and do yourself proud, best of everything. Bill perhaps maybe two pounds. Well, you put down five pounds for entertainment on yourexpenses. You've had a slap-up dinner, you're three pounds to the good,and everyone is satisfied.'

'But you see I don't like restaurants and no one pays for dinner at homeanyway. The servants just bring it in.'

'Or supposing you want to send flowers to your girl. You just go to ashop, send a great spray of orchids and put them down as "Information".'

'But I haven't got a girl and there are heaps of flowers at home.' Helooked at his watch again. 'Well, I'm afraid I must be going. You see Ihave a day-return ticket. I tell you what I'll do. I'll consult myfamily and let you know in a week or two.'

'Lord Copper wants you to leave tomorrow.'

'Oh. I couldn't do that anyway, you know. I haven't packed or anything.And I daresay I should need some new clothes. Oh, no, that's out of thequestion.'

'We might offer a larger salary.'

'Oh, no thank you. It isn't that. It's just that I don't want to go.'

'Is there nothing you want?'

'D'you know, I don't believe there is. Except to keep my job in LushPlaces and go on living at home.'

It was a familiar cry; during his fifteen years of service with theMegalopolitan Company Mr Salter had heard it upon the lips of countlessdistressed colleagues; upon his own. In a moment of compassion heremembered the morning when he had been called from his desk in CleanFun, never to return to it. The post had been his delight and pride;one for which he believed he had a particular aptitude.... First hewould open the morning mail and sort the jokes sent him by the privatecontributors (one man sent him thirty or forty a week) into those thatwere familiar, those that were indecent, and those that deserved thehalf-crown postal order payable upon publication. Then he would spend anhour or two with the bound Punches noting whatever seemed topical.Then the ingenious game began of fitting these legends to the funnyillustrations previously chosen for him by the Art Editor. Serene anddelicate sunrise on a day of tempest! From this task of ordereddiscrimination he had been thrown into the ruthless, cut-throat, roughand tumble of the Beast Woman's Page. From there, crushed andbedraggled, he had been tossed into the editorial chair of the Imperialand Foreign News.... His heart bled for William but he was true tothe austere traditions of his service. He made the reply that hadsilenced so many resentful novices in the past.

'Oh, but Lord Copper expects his staff to work wherever the bestinterests of the paper call them. I don't think he would employ anyoneof whose loyalty he was doubtful, in any capacity.'

'You mean if I don't go to Ishmaelia I get the sack?'

'Yes,' said Mr Salter. 'In so many words that is exactly what I--whatLord Copper means.... Won't you have a glass of port before we returnto the office?'

Chapter Three

An oddly placed, square window rising shoulder high from the lowwainscot, fringed outside with ivy, brushed by the boughs of a giantmonkey-puzzle; a stretch of faded wallpaper on which hung a water colourof the village churchyard painted in her more active days by Miss Scope,a small shelf of ill assorted books and a stuffed ferret, whose deathfrom rat-poisoning had over-shadowed the whole of one Easter holidayfrom his private school--these, according as he woke on his right orleft side, greeted William daily at Boot Magna.

On the morning after his interview with Mr Salter, he opened his eyes,relieved from a night haunted by Lord Copper in a hundred frightfulforms, to find himself in black darkness; his first thought was thatthere were still some hours to go before daylight; then as he rememberedthe season of the year and the vast, semi-conscious periods throughwhich he had passed, in the intervals of being pursued down badger runsin the showy plumage of the great crested grebe, he accepted the moreharrowing alternative that he had been struck blind; then that he wasmad, for a bell was ringing insistently a few inches, it seemed, fromhis ear. He sat up in bed and found that he was bare to the waist;totally bare, he learned by further researches. He stretched out his armand found a telephone; as he lifted it, the ringing stopped; a voicesaid, 'Mr Salter on the line.' Then he remembered the awful occurrenceof the previous evening.

'Good morning,' said Mr Salter. 'I thought I'd better get you early. Iexpect you've been up and about for hours, eh? Used to milking andcubbing and so on?'

'No,' said William.

'No? Well I don't get to the office much before eleven or twelve. Iwondered if everything was clear about your journey or are there one ortwo little things you'd like to go into first?'

'Yes.'

'Ah, I thought there might be. Well, come round to the office as soon asyou're ready.'

Groping, William found one of the dozen or so switches which controlledthe lighting of various parts of the bedroom. He found his watch andlearned that it was ten o'clock. He found a row of bell-pushes and rangfor valet and waiter.

The evening before he had been too much surfeited with new impressionsto pay particular attention to the room to which eventually he had beenled. It was two o'clock when Mr Salter left him; they had returned tothe Megalopolitan office after dinner; William had been led from room toroom; he had been introduced to the Managing Editor, the AssistantManaging Editor, the Art Editor (who had provided the camera), theAccounts Manager, the Foreign Contacts Adviser, and a multitude of menand women with visible means of support but no fixed occupation who hadpopped in from time to time on the various officials with whom Williamwas talking. He had signed a contract, an application for LifeInsurance, receipts for a camera, typewriter, a portfolio full oftickets, and a book of traveller's cheques to the value of £1000. He hadreached the hotel in a daze; the management had been told to expect him;they had led him to a lift, then, aloft, along a white, unnaturallysilent passage and left him in his room with no desire except to sleepand awake from his nightmare in the familiar, shabby surroundings ofBoot Magna.

The room was large and faultless. A psychologist, hired from Cambridge,had planned the decorations--magenta and gamboge; colours which--it hadbeen demonstrated by experiments on poultry and mice--conduce to a moodof dignified gaiety. Every day carpet, curtains and upholstery wereinspected for signs of disrepair. A gentle whining note filled theapartment, emanating from a plant which was thought to 'condition' theatmosphere. William's crumpled clothes lay on the magenta carpet; histypewriter and camera had been hidden from him by the night porter. Thedressing-table was fitted with a 'daylight' lamp so that women, beforeretiring to sleep, could paint their faces in a manner that would bebecoming at dawn; but it was bare of brushes.

Presently a valet entered, drew back four or five layers of curtain andrevealed the window--a model of ingenuity, devised to keep out the noiseof traffic and admit the therapeutic elements of common daylight. Hepicked up William's clothes, inclined gracefully towards the bed in aHigh Anglican compromise between nod and genuflection and disappearedfrom the room leaving it bereft of any link with William's previousexistence. Presently a waiter came with a bill of fare and Williamordered breakfast.

'And I want a toothbrush.'

The waiter communicated this need to the hall porter and presently apage with a face of ageless evil brought it on a tray. 'It was fiveshillings,' he said. 'And two bob for the cabfare.'

'That's too much.'

'Oh, come on,' said the knowing midget. 'It isn't you that pays.'

William indicated some loose change on the table. The boy took it all.'You want some pyjamas too,' he said. 'Shall I get you some?'

'No.'

'Please yourself,' said this vile boy leaving the room.

William ate his breakfast and rang for the valet.

'I want my clothes please.'

'Here are your shoes and cuff-links, sir. I have sent the shirt andunderclothes to the laundry. The suit is being cleaned. Your tie isbeing ironed by one of the ironing maids.'

'But I never told you to do that.'

'You gave no instructions to the contrary, sir. We naturally sendeverything away always unless we are specifically asked notto.... Would that be all, sir?'

'I want something to wear, now.'

'No doubt the hall porter will be able to arrange something.'

Some time later the same abominable child brought him a series ofparcels.

'Reach-me-downs,' he said. 'Not what I'd care to wear myself. But it'sthe best I could get. Twenty quid. Shall I have it put down?'

'Yes.'

'Nice job journalism. May take to it myself one day.'

'I'm sure you'd be very good at it.'

'Yes, I think I should. I didn't get you a razor. The barber is sixfloors down.'

****

The bells of St Bride's were striking twelve when William reached CopperHouse. He found Mr Salter in a state of agitation. 'Oh, dear, oh dear,you're late Boot, and Lord Copper himself has asked for you twice. Imust go and see if he is still accessible.'

William was left standing in the passage. Metal doors snapped in andout: 'Going up', 'going down', cried the Caucasian lift girls; on allsides his colleagues in the great concern came and went, bustling pasthim--haggard men who had been up all night, elegant young ladies bearingtrays of milk, oily figures in overalls bearing bits of machinery.William stood in a daze, fingering the stiff seams of his new suit.After a time he heard himself addressed: 'Hi, you,' said a voice, 'wakeup.'

'If only I could,' said William.

'Eh?'

'Nothing.'

The man speaking to him was exactly the type William recognized asbelonging to the film he had seen in Taunton; a short, shock-headedfellow in shirt sleeves, dicky and eye-shade, waistcoat pocket full ofpencils, first finger pointing accusingly.

'You. You're the new man, aren't you?'

'Yes, suppose I am.'

'Well, here's a chance for you.' He pushed a typewritten slip intoWilliam's hand. 'Cut along there quick. Take a taxi. Don't bother aboutyour hat. You're in a newspaper office now.'

William read the slip. 'Mrs Stitch. Gentlemen's Lavatory SloaneStreet.'

'We've just had this 'phoned through from the policeman on duty. Findout what she is doing down there. Quick!'

A lift door flew open at their side. 'Going down,' cried a Caucasian.

'In there.'

The door snapped shut; the lift shot down; soon William was in a taximaking for Sloane Street.

There was a dense crowd round the public lavatory. William bobbedhopelessly on the fringe; he could see nothing above the heads exceptmore heads, hats giving way to helmets at the hub. More spectatorsclosed in behind him; suddenly he felt a shove more purposeful than therest and a voice said, 'Way, please. Press. Make way for the Press.' Aman with a camera was forging a way through. 'Press, please, Press. Makeway for the Press.'

William joined in behind him and followed those narrow, irresistibleshoulders on their progress towards the steps. At last they foundthemselves at the railings, among the policemen. The camera man noddedpleasantly to them and proceeded underground. William followed.

'Hi,' said a sergeant, 'where are you going?'

'Press,' said William, 'I'm on the Beast.'

'So am I,' said the sergeant. 'Go to it. She's down there. Can't thinkhow she did it, not without hurting herself.'

At the foot of the steps, making, for the photographer, a happy contrastto the white tiles about it, stood a little black motor-car. Inside, herhands patiently folded in her lap, sat the most beautiful woman Williamhad ever seen. She was chatting in a composed and friendly manner to thecircle of reporters and plain clothes men.

'I can't think what you're all making such a fuss about,' she said.'It's simply a case of mistaken identity. There's a man I've beenwanting to speak to for weeks and I thought I saw him popping in here.So I drove down after him. Well it was someone quite different but hebehaved beautifully about it and now I can't get out; I've been herenearly half an hour and I've a great deal to do. I do think some ofyou might help, instead of standing there asking questions.'

Six of them seized the little car and lifted it, effortlessly, on theirshoulders. A cheer rose from the multitude as the jet back rose abovethe spikes of the railings. William followed, his hand resting lightlyon the running-board. They set Mrs Stitch back on the road; the policebegan to clear a passage for her. 'A very nice little story,' said oneof William's competitors. 'Just get in nicely for the evening edition.'

The throng began to disperse; the policemen pocketed their tips; thecameramen scampered for their dark rooms. 'Boot. Boot,' cried an eager,slightly peevish voice. 'So there you are. Come back at once.' It was MrSalter. 'I came to fetch you for Lord Copper and they told me you hadgone out. It was only by sheer luck that I found where you had gone.It's been a terrible mistake. Someone will pay for this; I know theywill. Oh dear, oh dear, get into the cab quickly.'

****

Twenty minutes later William and Mr Salter passed the first of the greatdoors which divided Lord Copper's personal quarters from the generaloffice. The carpets were thicker here, the lights softer, theexpressions of the inhabitants more careworn. The typewriters were of aspecial kind; their keys made no more sound than the drumming of abishop's fingertips on an upholstered prie-dieu; the telephone buzzerswere muffled and purred like warm cats. The personal private secretariespadded through the ante-chambers and led them nearer and nearer to thepresence. At last they came to massive double doors, encased in NewZealand rose-wood which by their weight, polish and depravity of design,proclaimed unmistakably, 'Nothing but Us stands between you and LordCopper.' Mr Salter paused, and pressed a little bell of synthetic ivory.'It lights a lamp on Lord Copper's own desk,' he said reverently. 'Iexpect we shall have a long time to wait.'

But almost immediately a green light overhead flashed their permissionto enter.

Lord Copper was at his desk. He dismissed some satellites and rose asWilliam came towards him.

'Come in, Mr Boot. This is a great pleasure. I have wanted to meet youfor a long time. It is not often that the Prime Minister and I agree butwe see eye to eye about your style. A very nice little styleindeed.... You may sit down too, Salter. Is Mr Boot all set for histrip?'

'Up to a point, Lord Copper.'

'Excellent. There are two invaluable rules for a specialcorrespondent--Travel Light and Be Prepared. Have nothing which in acase of emergency you cannot carry in your own hands. But remember thatthe unexpected always happens. Little things we take for granted at homelike...' he looked about him, seeking a happy example; the roomthough spacious was almost devoid of furniture; his eye rested on a bustof Lady Copper; that would not do; then, resourcefully, he said '...like a coil of rope or a sheet of tin, may save your life in the wilds.I should take some cleft sticks with you. I remember Hitchcock--SirJocelyn Hitchcock, a man who used to work for me once; smart enoughfellow in his way, but limited, very little historical backing--Iremember him saying that in Africa he always sent his despatches in acleft stick. It struck me as a very useful tip. Take plenty.

'With regard to Policy, I expect you already have your own views. Inever hamper my correspondents in any way. What the British public wantsfirst, last and all the time is News. Remember that the Patriots are inthe right and are going to win. The Beast stands by them four square.But they must win quickly. The British public has no interest in a warwhich drags on indecisively. A few sharp victories, some conspicuousacts of personal bravery on the Patriot side and a colourful entry intothe capital. That is the Beast Policy for the war.

'Let me see. You will get there in about three weeks. I should spend aday or two looking around and getting the background. Then a good,full-length despatch which we can feature with your name. That'severything, I think, Salter?'

'Definitely, Lord Copper.' He and William rose.

It was not to be expected that Lord Copper would leave his chair twicein the morning, but he leant across the desk and extended his hand.'Goodbye, Mr Boot, and the best of luck. We shall expect the firstvictory about the middle of July.'

When they had passed the final ante-room and were once more in thehumbler, frequented byways of the great building, Mr Salter uttered alittle sigh. 'It's an odd thing,' he said, 'that the more I see of LordCopper, the less I feel I really know him.'

The affability with which William had been treated was without precedentin Mr Salter's experience. Almost with diffidence he suggested, 'It'sone o'clock; if you are going to catch the afternoon aeroplane, youought to be getting your kit, don't you think?'

'Yes.'

'I don't suppose that after what Lord Copper has said there is anythingmore you want to know.'

'Well, there is one thing. You see I don't read the papers very much.Can you tell me who is fighting who in Ishmaelia?'

'I think it's the Patriots and the Traitors.'

'Yes, but which is which?'

'Oh, I don't know that. That's Policy, you see. It's nothing to dowith me. You should have asked Lord Copper.'

'I gather it's between the Reds and the Blacks.'

'Yes, but it's not quite as easy as that. You see they are all negroes.And the fascists won't be called black because of their racial pride, sothey are called White after the White Russians. And the Bolshevistswant to be called black because of their racial pride. So when yousay black you mean red, and when you mean red you say white and whenthe party who call themselves blacks say traitors they mean what wecall blacks, but what we mean when we say traitors I really couldn'ttell you. But from your point of view it will be quite simple. LordCopper only wants Patriot victories and both sides call themselvespatriots and of course both sides will claim all the victories. But ofcourse it's really a war between Russia and Germany and Italy and Japanwho are all against one another on the patriotic side. I hope I makemyself plain?'

'Up to a point,' said William, falling easily into the habit.

****

The Foreign Contacts Adviser of the Beast telephoned the emporiumwhere William was to get his kit and warned them of his arrival;accordingly it was General Cruttwell, F.R.G.S., himself who was waitingat the top of the lift shaft. An imposing man: Cruttwell Glacier inSpitzbergen, Cruttwell Falls in Venezuela, Mount Cruttwell in thePamirs, Cruttwell's Leap in Cumberland, marked his travels; Cruttwell'sFolly, a waterless and indefensible camp near Salonika, was notorious toall who served with him in the war. The shop paid him six hundred a yearand commission, out of which, by contract, he had to find his annualsubscription to the R.G.S. and the electric treatment which maintainedthe leathery tan of his complexion.

Before either had spoken the General sized William up; in any otherdepartment he would have been recognized as a sucker; here, amid thetrappings of high adventure he was, more gallantly, a greenhorn.

'Your first visit to Ishmaelia, eh? Then, perhaps I can be some helpto you. As no doubt you know I was there in '97 with poor "Sprat"Larkin...'

'I want some cleft sticks, please,' said William firmly.

The General's manner changed abruptly. His leg had been pulled before,often. Only last week there had been an idiotic young fellow dressed upas a missionary... 'What the devil for?' he asked tartly.

'Oh, just for my despatches you know.'

It was with exactly such an expression of simplicity that the joker hadasked for a tiffin gun, a set of chota pegs and a chota mallet. 'MissBarton will see to you,' he said, and turning on his heel he began toinspect a newly-arrived consignment of rhinoceros hide whips in amenacing way.

Miss Barton was easier to deal with. 'We can have some cloven for you,'she said brightly. 'If you will make your selection I will send themdown to our cleaver.'

William, hesitating between polo sticks and hockey sticks, chose six ofeach; they were removed to the workshop. Then Miss Barton led himthrough the departments of the enormous store. By the time she hadfinished with him, William had acquired a well-, perhaps rather over-,furnished tent, three months' rations, a collapsible canoe, a jointedflagstaff and Union Jack, a hand-pump and sterilizing plant, anastrolabe, six suits of tropical linen and a sou'-wester, a campoperating table and set of surgical instruments, a portable humidor,guaranteed to preserve cigars in condition in the Red Sea, and aChristmas hamper complete with Santa Claus costume and a tripodmistletoe stand, and a cane for whacking snakes. Only anxiety about timebrought an end to his marketing. At the last moment he added a coil ofrope and a sheet of tin; then he left under the baleful stare of GeneralCruttwell.

****

It had been arranged for him that William should fly to Paris and therecatch the Blue Train to Marseilles. He was just in time. His luggage,which followed the taxi in a small pantechnicon, made him a prominentfigure at the office of the Air Line.

'It will cost you one hundred and three pounds supplement on yourticket,' they said after it had all been weighed.

'Not me,' said William cheerfully, producing his travellers' cheques.

They telephoned to Croydon and ordered an additional aeroplane.

Mr Pappenhacker of The Twopence, was a fellow passenger. He travelledas a man of no importance; a typewriter and a single, 'featherweight'suitcase constituted his entire luggage; only the unobtrusiveMessageries Maritimes labels distinguished him from the surroundingmale and female commercial travellers. He read a little Arabic Grammar,holding it close to his nose, unconscious of all about him. William wasthe centre of interest in the motor omnibus, and in his heart he felt arising, wholly pleasurable excitement. His new possessions creaked andrattled on the roof, canoe against astrolabe, humidor against ant-proofclothes box; the cleft sticks lay in a bundle on the opposite seat; thegardens of South London sped past. William sat in a happy stupor. He hadnever wanted to go to Ishmaelia, or, for that matter, to any foreigncountry, to earn £50 a week or to own a jointed flagstaff or a campoperating table; but when he told Mr Salter that he wanted nothingexcept to live at home and keep his job, he had hidden the remote andsecret ambition of fifteen years or more. He did, very deeply, long togo up in an aeroplane. It was a wish so far from the probabilities oflife at Boot Magna, that William never spoke of it; very rarelyconsciously considered it. No one at home knew of it except NannieBloggs. She had promised him a flight if she won the Irish Sweepstake,but after several successive failures she had decided that the wholething was a popish trick and refused to take further tickets, and withher decision William's chances seemed to fade beyond the ultimatehorizon. But it still haunted his dreams and returned to him, morevividly, in the minutes of transition between sleep and wakefulness, onoccasions of physical exhaustion and inner content, hacking home in thetwilight after a good day's hunt, fuddled with port on the notinfrequent birthdays of the Boot household. And now its imminentfulfilment loomed through the haze that enveloped him as the single realand significant feature. High over the chimneys and the giantmonkey-puzzle, high among the clouds and rainbows and clear blue spaces,whose alternations figured so largely and poetically in Lush Places,high above the most ecstatic skylark, above earth-bound badger and greatcrested grebe, away from people and cities to a region of light and voidand silence--that was where William was going in the Air Line omnibus;he sat mute, rapt, oblivious of the cleft sticks and the portabletypewriter.

At Croydon he was received with obeisance; a special official had beendetailed to attend to him. 'Good day, Mr Boot... This way, Mr Boot...The men will see to your baggage, Mr Boot.' On the concrete courtin front of the station stood his aeroplane, her three engines tuningup, one screw swinging slow, one spinning faster, one totally invisible,roaring all-out. 'Good afternoon, Mr Boot,' said a man in overalls.

'Good afternoon, Mr Boot,' said a man in a peaked cap.

Pappenhacker and the commercial travellers were being herded into theservice plane. William watched his crates being embarked. Men like gyminstructors moved at the double behind rubber-tyred trollies. 'All in,Mr Boot,' they said, touching their caps. William distributed silver.

'Excuse me, Mr Boot,' a little man in a seedy soft hat stood atWilliam's elbow, 'I haven't yet had the pleasure of stamping yourpassport.'

Chapter Four

'Oh dear, oh dear,' said Mr Salter. 'D'you know, I believe it would beas well to keep Lord Copper in ignorance of this incident. TheTwopence will be a day ahead of us--perhaps more. Lord Copper would notlike that. It might cause trouble for the Foreign Contacts Adviseror--or someone.'

William's luggage was piled in the Byzantine Hall; even there, under thelofty, gilded vaults, it seemed enormous. He and Mr Salter regarded itsadly. 'I'll have all this sent on to your hotel. It must not be seen bythe Personal Staff. Here is your application form for an emergencypassport. The Art Department will take your photograph and we have anArchdeacon in the Religious Department who will witness it. Then I thinkyou had better keep away from the office until you start. I'm afraidthat you've missed the Messageries ship, but there's a P. and O. nextday to Aden. You can get across from there. And, officially, remember,you left this afternoon.'

It was a warm evening, heavy with the reek of petrol. William returnedsadly to his hotel and re-engaged his room. The last edition of theevening papers was on the streets. 'Society Beauty in PublicConvenience' they said. 'Mrs Stitch Again.'

William walked to Hyde Park. A black man, on a little rostrum, wasexplaining to a small audience why the Ishmaelite patriots were rightand the traitors were wrong. William turned away. He noticed withsurprise a tiny black car bowling across the grass; it sped on,dexterously swerving between the lovers; he raised his hat but thedriver was latent on her business. Mrs Stitch had just learned that ababoon, escaped from the Zoo, was up a tree in Kensington Gardens andshe was out to catch it.

'Who built the Pyramids?' cried the Ishmaelite orator. 'A Negro. Whoinvented the circulation of the blood? A Negro. Ladies and gentlemen, Iask you as impartial members of the great British public, who discoveredAmerica?'

And William went sadly on his way to a solitary dinner and an early bed.

****

At the passport office next morning they told William that he would wanta visa for Ishmaelia. 'In fact you may want two. Someone's just opened arival legation. We haven't recognized it officially of course but youmay find it convenient to visit them. Which part are you going to?'

'The patriotic part.'

'Ah, then you'd better get two visas,' said the official.

William drove to the address they gave him. It was in Maida Vale. Herang the bell and presently a tousled woman opened the door.

'Is this the Ishmaelite Legation?' he asked.

'No, it's Doctor Cohen's and he's out.'

'Oh... I wanted an Ishmaelite visa.'

'Well you'd better call again. I daresay Doctor Cohen will have one onlyhe doesn't come here not often except sometimes to sleep.'

The lower half of another woman appeared on the landing overhead.William could see her bedroom slippers and a length of flanneldressing-gown.

'What is it, Effie?'

'Man at the door.'

'Tell him whatever it is we don't want it.'

'He says will the Doctor give him something or other.'

'Not without an appointment.'

The legs disappeared and a door slammed.

'That's Mrs Cohen,' said Effie. 'You see how it is, they're Yids.'

'Oh dear,' said William, 'I was told to come here by the passportoffice.'

'Sure it isn't the nigger downstairs you want?'

'Perhaps it is.'

'Well why didn't you say so? He's downstairs.'

William then noticed, for the first time, that a little flag was flyingfrom the area railings. It bore a red hammer and sickle on a blackground. He descended to the basement where, over a door between twodustbins, a notice proclaimed:

William knocked and the door was opened by the Negro whom he had seenthe evening before in Hyde Park. The features, to William'sundiscriminating eye, were not much different from those of any otherNegro, but the clothes were unforgettable.

'Can I see the Ishmaelite consul-general, please?'

'Are you from the Press?'

'Yes, I suppose in a way I am.'

'Come in. I'm him. As you see we are a little understaffed at themoment.'

The consul-general led him into what had once been the servants' hall.Photographs of Negroes in uniform and ceremonial European dress, hung onthe walls. Samples of tropical produce were disposed on the table andalong the bookshelves. There was a map of Ishmaelia, an eight pieceoffice suite and a radio. William sat down. The consul-general turnedoff the music and began to talk.

'The patriotic cause in Ishmaelia,' he said, 'is the cause of thecoloured man and of the proletariat throughout the world. The Ishmaeliteworker is threatened by corrupt and foreign coalition of capitalistexploiters, priests and imperialists. As that great Negro Karl Marx hasso nobly written...' He talked for about twenty minutes. Theblack-backed, pink-palmed, fin-like hands beneath the violet cuffsflapped and slapped. 'Who built the Pyramids?' he asked. 'Who inventedthe circulation of the blood?... Africa for the African worker,Europe for the African worker, Asia, Oceania, America, Arctic andAntarctic for the African worker.'

At length he paused and wiped the line of froth from his lips.

'I came about a visa,' said William diffidently.

'Oh,' said the consul-general, turning on the radio once more. 'There'sfifty pounds deposit and a form to fill in.'

William declared that he had not been imprisoned, that he was notsuffering from any contagious or outrageous disease, that he was notseeking employment in Ishmaelia or the overthrow of its politicalinstitutions; paid his deposit and was rewarded with a rubber stamp onthe first page of his new passport.

'I hope you have a pleasant trip,' said the consul-general. 'I'm toldit's a very interesting country.'

'But aren't you an Ishmaelite?'

'Me? Certainly not. I'm a graduate of the Baptist College of Antigua.But the cause of the Ishmaelite worker is the cause of the Negro workersof the world.'

'Yes,' said William. 'Yes. I suppose it is. Thank you very much.'

'Who discovered America?' demanded the consul-general to his retreatingback, in tones that rang high above the sound of the wireless concert.'Who won the Great War?'

****

The rival legation had more spacious quarters in an hotel in SouthKensington. A gold swastika on a white ground hung proudly from thewindow. The door of the suite was opened by a Negro clad in a white silkshirt, buckskin breeches and hunting boots who clicked his spurs andgave William a Roman salute.

'I've come for a visa.'

The pseudo-consul led him to the office. 'I shall have to delay you fora few minutes. You see the Legation is only just open and we have notyet got our full equipment. We are expecting the rubber stamp any minutenow. In the meantime let me explain the Ishmaelite situation to you.There are many misconceptions. For instance, the Jews of Geneva,subsidized by Russian gold, have spread the story that we are a blackrace. Such is the ignorance, credulity and prejudice of the taintedEuropean states that the absurd story has been repeated in the Press. Imust ask you to deny it. As you will see for yourself we are pureAryans. In fact we were the first white colonizers of Central Africa.What Stanley and Livingstone did in the last century, our Ishmaeliteancestors did in the stone age. In the course of the years the tropicalsun has given to some of us a healthy, in some cases almost a swarthytan. But all responsible anthropologists...'

William fingered his passport and became anxious about luncheon. It wasalready past one.

'...The present so-called government bent on the destruction of ourgreat heritage...' There was an interruption. The pseudo-consul wentto the door. 'From the stationer's,' said a cockney voice. 'Four andeight to pay.'

'Thank you, that is all.'

'Four and eight to pay or else I takes it away again.'

There was a pause. The pseudo-consul returned.

'There is a fee of five shillings for the visa,' he said.

William paid. The pseudo-consul returned with the rubber stamp, jinglingfour pennies in his breeches pocket.

'You will see the monuments of our glorious past in Ishmaelia,' he said,taking the passport. 'I envy you very much.'

'But are you not an Ishmaelite?'

'Of course; by descent. My parents migrated some generations ago. I wasbrought up in Sierra Leone.'

Then he opened the passport.

****

The bells of St Bride's were striking four when, after a heavy luncheon,William returned to the Megalopolitan Building.

'Boot. Oh dear, oh dear,' said Mr Salter. 'You ought to be at theaerodrome. What on earth has happened?'

'He burned my passport.'

'Who did?'

'The patriot consul.'

'Why?'

'It had a traitor visa on it.'

'I see. How very unfortunate. Lord Copper would be most upset if hecame to hear of it. I think we had better go and ask the ForeignContacts Adviser what to do.'

On the following afternoon, provided with two passports, William leftCroydon aerodrome in his special plane.

****

He did not leave alone.

The propellers were thundering; the pilot threw away his cigarette andadjusted his helmet; the steward wrapped a rug round William's feet andtenderly laid in his lap a wad of cotton wool, a flask of smelling saltsand an empty paper bag; the steps were being wheeled from the door. Atthat moment three figures hurried from the shelter of the offices. Onewas heavily enveloped in a sand-coloured ulster; a check cap was pulledlow on his eyes and his collar was fastened high against the blast ofthe engines. He was a small man in a hurry, yet bustling and buttoned upas he was, a man of unmistakable importance, radiating something of thedignity of a prize Pekingese. This impression was accentuated by theextreme deference with which he was treated by his companions, one asoldierly giant carrying an attaché case, the other wearing the uniformof high rank in the company.

This official now approached William, and, above the engine, asked hispermission to include a passenger and his servant. The name was lost inthe roar of the propellers. 'Mr... I needn't tell you who he is...only plane available... request from a very high quarter... infinitelyobliged if... as far as Le Bourget.'

William gave his assent and the two men bowed silently and took theirplaces. The official withdrew. The little man delicately plugged hisears and sank deeper into his collar. The door was shut; the groundstaff fell back. The machine moved forward, gathered speed, hurtled andbumped across the rough turf, ceased to bump, floated clear of theearth, mounted and wheeled above the smoke and traffic and very soonhung, it seemed motionless, above the Channel, where the track of asteamer, far below them, lay in the bright water like a line of smoke ona still morning. William's heart rose with it and gloried, lark-like, inthe high places.

****

All too soon they returned to earth. The little man and his servantslipped unobtrusively through the throng and William was bayed on allsides by foreigners. The parcels and packing cases seemed to fill theshed, and the customs officers, properly curious, settled down to athorough examination.

'Tous sont des effets personnels--tous usés,' William said gallantly,but one by one, with hammers and levers, the crates were opened andtheir preposterous contents spread over the counter.

It was one of those rare occasions when the humdrum life of the douanieris exalted from the tedious traffic in vegetable silks and subversiveliterature, to realms of adventure; such an occasion as might haveinspired the jungle scenes of Rousseau. Not since an Egyptian lady hadbeen caught cosseting an artificial baby stuffed with hashish, had thecustoms officials of Le Bourget had such a beano.

'Commons dit-on humidor?' William cried his distress, 'C'est une chosepour guarder les cigares dans la Mer Rouge--et dedans ceci sont lesaffaires de l'hôpital pour couper les bras et les jambes, vouscomprenez--et ça c'est pour tuer les serpents et ceci est un bateau quicollapse et ces branches de mistletoe sont pour Noel, pour baiserdessous, vous savez...'

'Monsieur, il ne faut pas se moquer des douanes.'

The cleft sticks alone passed without question, with sympathy.

'Ils sont pour porter les depêches.'

'C'est un Sport?'

'Oui, oui, certainement--le Sport.'

There and at the Gare de Lyons he spent vast sums; all the porters ofParis seemed to have served him, all the officials to need his signatureon their sheaves of documents. At last he achieved his train, and, asthey left Paris, made his way uncertainly towards the restaurant car.

****

Opposite him at the table to which he was directed, sat a middle-agedman, at the moment engaged in a homily to the waiter in fluent andapparently telling argot. His head was totally bald on the top and ofunusual conical shape; at the sides and back the hair was closely cutand dyed a strong, purplish shade of auburn. He was neatly, ratherstiffly dressed for the time of year, and heavily jewelled; a cabochonemerald, massive and dull, adorned his tie; rubies flashed on hisfingers and cuff-links as his hands rose and spread configuring theswell and climax of his argument; pearls and platinum stretched frompocket to pocket of his waistcoat. William wondered what his nationalitycould be and thought perhaps Turkish. Then he spoke, in a voice that wasnot exactly American nor Levantine nor Eurasian nor Latin nor Teuton,but a blend of them all.

'The moment they recognize an Englishman they think they can make amonkey of him,' he said in this voice. 'That one was Swiss; they're theworst; tried to make me buy mineral water. The water in the carafes isexcellent. I have drunk quantities of it in my time without ever beingseriously affected--and I have a particularly delicate stomach. May Igive you some?'

William said he preferred wine.

'You are interested in clarets? I have a little vineyard in Bordeaux--onthe opposite slope of the hill to Château Mouton-Rothschild where in myopinion the soil is rather less delicate than mine. I like to havesomething to give my friends. They are kind enough to find it drinkable.It has never been in the market, of course. It is a little hobby ofmine.'

He took two pills, one round and white, the other elliptical and black,from a rococo snuff-box and laid them on the tablecloth beside hisplate. He drew a coroneted crêpe de chine handkerchief from his pocket,carefully wiped his glass, half-filled it with murky liquid from thewater bottle, swallowed his medicine and then said:

'You are surprised at my addressing you?'

'Not at all,' said William politely.

'But it is surprising. I make a point of never addressing my fellowtravellers. Indeed I usually prefer to dine in the coupé. But this isnot our first meeting. You were kind enough to give me a place in youraeroplane this afternoon. It was a service I greatly appreciate.'

'Not at all,' said William. 'Not at all. Very glad to have been anyhelp.'

'It was the act of an Englishman--a fellow Englishman,' said the littleman simply. 'I hope that one day I shall have the opportunity ofrequiting it... I probably shall,' he added rather sadly. 'It is oneof the pleasant if onerous duties of a man of my position to requite theservices he receives--usually on a disproportionately extravagantscale.'

'Please,' said William. 'Do not give the matter another thought.'

'I never do. I try to let these things slip from my mind as one of theevanescent delights of travel. But it has been my experience that sooneror later I am reminded of them by my benefactor... You are on yourway to the Côte d'Azur?'

'No, only as far as Marseilles.'

'I rejoice in the Côte d'Azur. I try to get there every year but toooften I am disappointed. I have so much on my hands--naturally--and inwinter I am much occupied with sport. I have a little pack of hounds inthe Midlands.'

'Oh. Which?'

'You might not have heard of us. We march with the Fernie. I suppose itis the best hunting country in England. It is a little hobby of mine,but at times, when there is a frost, I long for my little house atAntibes. My friends are kind enough to say I have made it comfortable. Iexpect you will one day honour me with a visit there.'

'It sounds delightful.'

'They tell me the bathing is good but that does not interest me. I havesome plantations of flowering trees which horticulturalists are generousenough to regard with interest, and the largest octopus in captivity.The chef too is, in his simple seaside way, one of the best I have.Those simple pleasures suffice for me... You are surely not making along stay in Marseilles?'

'No, I sail tomorrow for East Africa. For Ishmaelia,' William added withsome swagger.

The effect on his companion was gratifying. He blinked twice and askedwith subdued courtesy:

'Forgive me; I think I must have misheard you. Where are you going?'

'To Ishmaelia. You know, the place where they say there is a war.'

There was a pause. Finally: 'Yes, the name is in some way familiar. Imust have seen it in the newspapers.' And, taking a volume of pre-HitlerGerman poetry from the rack above him, he proceeded to read, shaping thewords with his lips like a woman in prayer and slowly turning theleaves.

Undeviating as the train itself, the dinner followed its changelesscourse from consommé to bombe. William's companion ate little and saidnothing. With his coffee he swallowed two crimson cachets. Then heclosed his book of love poems and nodded across the restaurant car.

The soldierly valet who had been dining at the next table rose to go.

'Cuthbert.'

'Sir.'

He stood attentively at his master's side.

'Did you give my sheets to the conducteur?'

'Yes, sir.'

'See that he has made them up properly. Then you may go to bed. You knowthe time in the morning?'

'Yes sir, thank you sir, good-night sir.'

'Good-night, Cuthbert...' Then he turned to William and said withpeculiar emphasis: 'A very courageous man that. He served with me in thewar. He never left my side so I recommended him for the V.C. He neverleaves me now. And he is adequately armed.'

William returned to his carriage to lie awake, doze fitfully and at lastto raise the blinds upon a landscape of vines and olives and dustyaromatic scrub.

****

At Marseilles he observed, but was too much occupied to speculate uponthe fact, that his companion of the evening before had also left thetrain. He saw the dapper, slightly rotund figure slip past the barrier afew paces ahead of the valet, but immediately the stupendousresponsibilities of his registered baggage pressed all other concernsfrom his mind.

Chapter Five

The ships which William had missed had been modern and commodious andswift; not so the Francmaçon in which he was eventually obliged tosail. She had been built at an earlier epoch in the history of steamnavigation and furnished in the style of the day, for service among thehigh waves and icy winds of the North Atlantic. Late June in the Gulf ofSuez was not her proper place or season. There was no space on her decksfor long chairs; her cabins, devoid of fans, were aired only by tinyportholes, built to resist the buffeting of an angrier sea. Thepassengers sprawled listlessly on the crimson plush settees of thelounge. Carved mahogany panels shut them in; a heraldic ceiling hungthreateningly overhead; light came to them, dimly, from behind theimitation windows of stained, armorial glass, and, blinding white, fromthe open door, whence too, came the sounds of the winch, the smell ofcargo, and hot iron, the patter of bare feet and the hoarse, scoldingvoice of the second officer.

William sat in a hot, soft chair, a map of Ishmaelia open upon hisknees, his eyes shut, his head lolling forwards on his chest, fastasleep, dreaming about his private school, now, he noted withoutsurprise, peopled by Negroes and governed by his grandmother. Anappalling brass percussion crashed and sang an inch or two from his ear.A soft voice said, 'Lunce pliss.' The Javanese with the gong proceededon his apocalyptic mission, leaving William hot and wet, withoutappetite, very sorry to be awake.

The French colonial administrator, who had been nursing his two childrenin the next armchair to William's, rose briskly. It was the first timethat day they had met face to face, so they shook hands and commented onthe heat. Every morning, William found, it was necessary to shake handswith all the passengers.

'And madame?'

'She suffers. You are still studying the map of Ishmaelia...' theyturned together and descended the staircase towards the dining saloon;the functionary leading a tottering child by either hand, '...It is acountry of no interest.'

'No.'

'It is not rich at all. If it were rich it would already belong toEngland. Why do you wish to take it?'

'But I do not wish to.'

'There is no oil, there is no tin, no gold, no iron--positively none,'said the functionary, growing vexed at such unreasonable rapacity. 'Whatdo you want with it?'

'I am going as a journalist.'

'Ah well, to the journalist every country is rich.'

They were alone at their table. The functionary arranged his napkinabout his open throat, tucked the lowest corner into his cummerbund andlifted a child on to either knee. It was always thus that he sat atmeals, feeding them to repletion, to surfeit, alternately, from his ownplate. He wiped his glass on the tablecloth, put ice into it, and filledit with the harsh, blue-red wine that was included free in the menu. Thelittle girl took a deep draught. 'It is excellent for their stomachs,'he explained, refilling for his son.

There were three empty places at their table. The administrator'swife's, the Captain's, and the Captain's wife's. The last two were onthe bridge directing the discharge of cargo. The Captain led a life ofsomewhat blatant domesticity; half the boat deck was given up to hisquarters, where a vast brass bedstead was visible through the portholes,and a variety of unseamanlike furniture. The Captain's wife had hedgedoff a little verandah for herself with pots of palm and strings of newlylaundered underclothes. Here she passed the day stitching, ironing,flopping in and out of the deck-house in heelless slippers, armed with afeather brush, often emerging in a dense aura of Asiatic perfume to dinein the saloon; a tiny, hairless dog capered about her feet. But in portshe was always at her husband's side, exchanging civilities with thecompany's agents and the quarantine inspectors, and arranging, in asmall way, for the transfer of contraband.

'Even supposing there is oil in Ishmaelia,' said the administrator,resuming the conversation which had occupied him ever since, on thefirst night of the voyage, William had disclosed his destination. 'Howare you going to get it out?'

'But I have no interest in commerce. I am going to report the war.'

'War is all commerce.'

William's command of French, just adequate, inaccurately, for theexchange of general information and the bare courtesies of dailyintercourse, was not strong enough for sustained argument, so now, as atevery meal, he left the Frenchman victorious, saying 'Peut-être,' withwhat he hoped was Gallic scepticism and turning his attention to thedish beside him.

It was a great, white fish, cold and garnished; the children hadrejected it with cries of distress; it lay on a charger of imitationsilver; the two brown thumbs of the coloured steward lay just within thecircle of mayonnaise; lozenges and roundels of coloured vegetable spreadsymmetrically about its glazed back. William looked sadly at this fish.'It is very dangerous,' said the administrator. 'In the tropics oneeasily contracts disease of the skin...'

...Far away the trout were lying among the cool pebbles, noseupstream, meditative, hesitant, in the waters of his home; the barbedfly, unnaturally brilliant overhead; they were lying, blue-brown,scarred by the grill, with white-bead eyes, in chaste silver dishes.'Fresh green of the river bank; faded terracotta of the dining-roomwallpaper, colours of distant Canaan, of deserted Eden,' thoughtWilliam--'are they still there? Shall I ever revisit those familiarplaces...?'

...'Il faut manger, il faut vivre,' said the Frenchman, 'qu'est-cequ'il-y-a comme viande?'

And at that moment, suddenly, miasmically, in the fiery wilderness,there came an apparition.

A voice said in English, 'Anyone mind if I park myself here?' and astranger stood at the table, as though conjured there by William'sunexpressed wish; as though conjured, indeed, by a djinn who hadimperfectly understood his instructions.

The newcomer was British but, at first sight unprepossessing. His suitof striped flannel had always, as its tailor proudly remarked, fittedsnugly at the waist. The sleeves had been modishly narrow. Now in themid-day heat it had resolved into an alternation of wrinkles and dampadherent patches, steaming visibly. The double breasted waistcoat wasunbuttoned and revealed shirt and braces.

'Not dressed for this climate,' remarked the young man, superfluously.'Left in a hurry.'

He sat down heavily in the chair next to William's and ran his napkinround the back of his collar. 'Phew. What does one drink on this boat?'

The Frenchman who had regarded him with resentment from the moment ofhis appearance, now leant forward and spoke, acidly.

The hot man smiled in an encouraging way and turned to William.

'What's old paterfamilias saying?'

William translated literally. 'He says that you have taken the chair ofthe Captain's lady.'

'Too bad. What's she like? Any good?'

'Bulky,' said William.

'There was a whopper upstairs with the Captain. What I call theContinental Figure. Would that be her?'

'Yes.'

'Definitely no good, old boy. Not for Corker anyway.'

The Frenchman leaned towards William.

'This is the Captain's table. Your friend must not come here except byinvitation.'

'I do not know him,' said William. 'It is his business.'

'The Captain should present him to us. This is a reserved place.'

'Hope I'm not butting in,' said the Englishman.

The steward offered him the fish; he examined its still unbrokenornaments and helped himself. 'If you ask me,' he said cheerfully, hismouth full, 'I'd say it was a spot off colour, but I never do care muchfor French cooking. Hi, you, Alphonse, comprenez pint of bitter?'

The steward gaped at him, then at the fish, then at him again. 'Nolike?' he said at last.

'No like one little bit, but that's not the question under discussion.Me like a big tankard of Bass, Worthington, whatever you got. Look,comme ça,'--he made the motions of drinking--'I say, what's the Frenchfor bitter?'

William tried to help.

The steward beamed and nodded.

'Whisky-soda?'

'All right, Alphonse, you win. Whisky-soda it shall be. Beaucoup whisky,beaucoup soda, toute-de-suite. The truth is,' he continued, turning toWilliam, 'my French is a bit rusty. You're Boot of the Beast, aren'tyou? Thought I might run into you. I'm Corker of the U.N. Just got onboard with an hour to spare. Think of it; I was in Fleet Street onTuesday; got my marching orders at ten o'clock, caught the plane toCairo, all night in a car and here I am, all present and, I hope,correct. God, I can't think how you fellows can eat this fish.'

'We can't,' said William.

'Found it a bit high?'

'Exactly.'

'That's what I thought,' said Corker, 'the moment I saw it. Here,Alphonse, mauvais poisson--parfume formidable--prenez--et portez vite lewhisky, you black bum.'

The Frenchman continued to feed his children. It is difficult for a mannursing two children, aged five and two and clumsy eaters at that, tolook supercilious, but the Frenchman tried and Corker noticed it.

'Does the little mother understand English?' he asked William.

'No.'

'That's lucky. Not a very matey bird?'

'No.'

'Fond of la belle France?'

'Well I can't say I've ever been there--except to catch this ship.'

'Funny thing, neither have I. Never been out of England except once,when I went to Ostend to cover a chess congress. Ever play chess?'

'No.'

'Nor do I. God, that was a cold story.' The steward placed on the tablea syphon and a bottle of whisky which carried the label 'Edouard VIII:Very old Genuine Scotch Whisky: André Bloc et Cie, Saigon,' and thecoloured picture of a Regency buck, gazing sceptically at the consumerthrough a quizzing glass.

'Alphonse,' said Corker, 'I'm surprised at you.'

'No like?'

'Bloody well no like.'

'Whisky-soda,' the man explained, patiently, almost tenderly, as thoughin the nursery. 'Nice.'

Corker filled his glass, tasted, grimaced, and then resumed theinterrupted enquiry. 'Tell me honestly, had you ever heard of Ishmaeliabefore you were sent on this story?'

'Only very vaguely.'

'Same here. And the place I'd heard of was something quite different inthe Suez Canal. You know, when I first started in journalism I used tothink that foreign correspondents spoke every language under the sun andspent their lives studying international conditions. Brother, look atus! On Monday afternoon I was in East Sheen breaking the news to a widowof her husband's death leap with a champion girl cyclist--the wrongwidow as it turned out; the husband came back from business while I wasthere and cut up very nasty. Next day the Chief has me in and says,"Corker, you're off to Ishmaelia." "Out of town job?" I asked. "EastAfrica," he said, just like that, "pack your traps." "What's the story?"I asked. "Well," he said, "a lot of niggers are having a war. I don'tsee anything in it myself, but the other agencies are sending featuremen, so we've got to do something. We want spot news," he said, "andsome colour stories. Go easy on the expenses." "What are they having awar about?" I asked. "That's for you to find out," he said, but Ihaven't found out yet. Have you?'

'No.'

'Well, I don't suppose it matters. Personally I can't see that foreignstories are ever news--not real news of the kind U.N. covers.'

'Forgive me,' said William, 'I'm afraid I know very little aboutjournalism. What is U.N.?'

'No kidding?'

'No,' said William, 'no kidding.'

'Never heard of Universal News?'

'I'm afraid not.'

'Well, I won't say we're the biggest news agency in the country--some ofthe stuffier papers won't take us--but we certainly are the hottest.'

'And what, please,' asked William, 'is a news agency?'

Corker told him.

'You mean that everything that you write goes to the Beast?'

'Well, that's rather a sore point, brother. We've been having a row withyou lately. Something about a libel action one of our boys let you infor. But you take the other agencies, of course, and I daresay you'llpatch it up with us. They're featuring me as a special service.'

'Then why do they want to send me?'

'All the papers are sending specials.'

'And all the papers have reports from three or four agencies?'

'Yes.'

'But if we all send the same thing it seems a waste.'

'There would soon be a row if we did.'

'But isn't it very confusing if we all send different news?'

'It gives them a choice. They all have different policies so of coursethey have to give different news.'

They went up to the lounge and drank their coffee together.

The winches were silent; the hatches covered. The agents were makingtheir ceremonious farewells to the Captain's wife. Corker sprawled backin his plush chair and lit a large cheroot.

'Given me by a native I bought some stuff off,' he explained. 'Youbuying much stuff?'

'Stuff?'

'Oriental stuff--you know, curios.'

'No,' said William.

'I'm a collector--in a small way,' said Corker. 'That's one of thereasons why I was glad to be sent on this story. Ought to be able topick up some pretty useful things out East. But it's going to be a toughassignment from all I hear. Cut-throat competition. That's where I envyyou--working for a paper. You only have to worry about getting yourstory in time for the first edition. We have to race each other allday.'

'But the papers can't use your reports any earlier than ours.'

'No, but they use the one that comes in first.'

'But if it's exactly the same as the one that came in second and thirdand fourth and they are all in time for the same edition...?'

Corker looked at him sadly. 'You know, you've got a lot to learn aboutjournalism. Look at it this way. News is what a chap who doesn't caremuch about anything wants to read. And it's only news until he's readit. After that it's dead. We're paid to supply news. If someone else hassent a story before us, our story isn't news. Of course there's colour.Colour is just a lot of bull's-eyes about nothing. It's easy to writeand easy to read but it costs too much in cabling so we have to go slowon that. See?'

That afternoon Corker told William a great deal about the craft ofjournalism. The Francmaçon weighed anchor, swung about and steamedinto the ochre hills, through the straits and out into the open seawhile Corker recounted the heroic legends of Fleet Street; he told ofthe classic scoops and hoaxes; of the confessions wrung from hystericalsuspects; of the innuendo and intricate mis-representations, theluscious detailed inventions that composed contemporary history; of thepositive, daring lies that got a chap a rise of screw; how WenlockJakes, highest paid journalist of the United States, scooped the worldwith an eyewitness story of the sinking of the Lusitania four hoursbefore she was hit; how Hitchcock, the English Jakes, straddling overhis desk in London, had chronicled day by day the horrors of the Messinaearthquake; how Corker himself, not three months back, had had the raregood fortune to encounter a knight's widow trapped by the foot betweenlift and landing. 'It was through that story I got sent here,' saidCorker. 'The boss promised me the first big chance that turned up. Ilittle thought it would be this.'

Many of Corker's anecdotes dealt with the fabulous Wenlock Jakes.'...syndicated all over America. Gets a thousand dollars a week.When he turns up in a place you can bet your life that as long ashe's there it'll be the news centre of the world.

'Why, once Jakes went out to cover a revolution in one of the Balkancapitals. He overslept in his carriage, woke up at the wrong station,didn't know any different, got out, went straight to a hotel, and cabledoff a thousand word story about barricades in the streets, flamingchurches, machine guns answering the rattle of his typewriter as hewrote, a dead child, like a broken doll, spreadeagled in the desertedroadway below his window--you know.

'Well they were pretty surprised at his office, getting a story likethat from the wrong country, but they trusted Jakes and splashed it insix national newspapers. That day every special in Europe got orders torush to the new revolution. They arrived in shoals. Everything seemedquiet enough but it was as much as their jobs were worth to say so, withJakes filing a thousand words of blood and thunder a day. So they chimedin too. Government stocks dropped, financial panic, state of emergencydeclared, army mobilized, famine, mutiny and in less than a week therewas an honest to God revolution under way, just as Jakes had said.There's the power of the Press for you.

'They gave Jakes the Nobel Peace Prize for his harrowing descriptions ofthe carnage--but that was colour stuff.'

Towards the conclusion of this discourse--William took little partbeyond an occasional expression of wonder--Corker began to wriggle hisshoulders restlessly, to dive his hand into his bosom and scratch, toroll up his sleeve and gaze fixedly at a forearm which was rapidlybecoming mottled and inflamed.

It was the fish.

****

For two days Corker's nettle-rash grew worse, then it began to subside.

William often used to see him at his open door; he sat bare to thewaist, in his pyjama trousers, typing long, informative letters to hiswife and dabbing himself with vinegar and water as prescribed by theship's doctor; often his disfigured face would appear over the galleryof the dining saloon calling petulantly for Vichy water.

'He suffers,' remarked the functionary with great complacency.

Not until they were nearing Aden did the rash cool a little and allow ofCorker coming down to dinner. When he did so William hastened to consulthim about a radiogram which had arrived that morning and was causing himgrave bewilderment. It read:

OPPOSITION SPLASHING FRONTWARD SPEEDIEST STOP ADEN REPORTED PREPARED WARWISE FLASH FACTS BEAST.

'I can't understand it,' said William.

'No?'

'The only thing that makes any sense is Stop Aden.'

'Yes?' Corker's face, still brightly patterned was, metaphorically, ablank.

'What d'you think I'd better do?'

'Just what they tell you, old boy.'

'Yes, I suppose I'd better.'

'Far better.'

But William was not happy about it. 'It doesn't make any sense, read ithow you will. I wonder if the operator has made a muddle somewhere,' hesaid at last.

'I should ask him,' said Corker, scratching. 'And now if you don't mindI must get back to the vinegar bottle.'

There had been something distinctly unmatey about his manner, Williamthought. Perhaps it was the itch.

****

Early next morning they arrived off Steamer Point. The stewards, in afrenzy of last minute avarice, sought to atone for ten days' neglectwith a multitude of unneeded services. The luggage was appearing ondeck. The companion ladder was down, waiting the arrival of the officiallaunch. William leant on the taffrail gazing at the bare heap of clinkerhalf a mile distant. It did not seem an inviting place for a long visit.There seemed no frontward splashing to oppose. The sea was dead calm andthe ship's refuse lay all round it--a bank holiday litter of horriblescraps--motionless, undisturbed except for an Arab row-boat peddlingelephants of synthetic ivory. At William's side Corker bargainedraucously for the largest of these toys.

Presently the boy from the wireless room brought him a message.'Something about you,' he said and passed it on to William.

It said: COOPERATING BEAST AVOID DUPLICATION BOOT UNNATURAL.

'What does that mean?'

'It means our bosses have been getting together in London. You're takingour special service on this Ishmaelia story. So you and I can worktogether after all.'

'And what is unnatural.'

'That's our telegraphic name.' Corker completed his purchase, haggledover the exchange from francs to rupees, was handsomely cheated, anddrew up his elephant on a string. Then he said casually. 'By the by,have you still got that cable you had last night?'

William showed it to him.

'Shall I tell you what this says? "Opposition splashing" means thatrival papers are giving a lot of space to this story. "Frontwardspeediest"--go to the front as fast as you can--full stop--Aden isreported here to be prepared on a war-time footing--"Flash facts"--sendthem the details of this preparation at once.'

'Good heavens,' said William. 'Thank you. What an extraordinary thing...It wouldn't have done at all if I'd stayed on at Aden, would it.'

'No, brother, not at all.'

'But why didn't you tell me this last night?'

'Brother, have some sense. Last night we were competing. It was a greatchance, leaving you behind. Then the Beast would have had to takeU.N. Laugh? I should have bust my pants. However they've fixed things upwithout that. Glad to have you with me on the trip, brother. And whileyou're working with me, don't go showing service messages to anybodyelse, see?'

Happily nursing his bakelite elephant Corker sauntered back to hiscabin.

Passport officers came on board and sat in judgment in the first-classsmoking-room. The passengers who were to disembark assembled to waittheir turn. William and Corker passed without difficulty. They elbowedtheir way to the door, through the little knot of many coloured, manytongued people who had emerged from the depths of the ship. Among themwas a plump, dapper figure redolent of hairwash and shaving soap andexpensive scent; there was a glint of jewellery in the shadows, asparkle of reflected sunlight on the hairless, conical scalp. It wasWilliam's dining companion from the blue train. They greeted one anotherwarmly.

'I never saw you on board,' said William.

'Nor I you. I wish I had known you were with us. I would have asked youto dine with me in my little suite. I always maintain a certain privacyon the sea. One so easily forms acquaintances which become tediouslater.'

'This is a long way from Antibes. What's brought you here?'

'Warmth,' said the little man simply. 'The call of the sun.'

There was a pause and, apparently, some uncertainty at the officialtable behind them.

'How d'you suppose this bloke pronounces his name?' asked the firstpassport officer.

'Search me,' said the second.

'Where's the man with the Costa-Rican passport?' said the first passportofficer, addressing the room loudly.

A Hindoo who had no passport tried to claim it, was detected and heldfor further enquiry.

'Where's the Costa-Rican?' said the officer again.

'Forgive me,' said William's friend, 'I have a little business totransact with these gentlemen,' and, accompanied by his valet, hestepped towards the table.

'Who's the pansy?' asked Corker.

'Believe it or not,' William replied, 'I haven't the faintest idea.'

His business seemed to take a long time. He was not at the gangway whenthe passengers disembarked, but as they chugged slowly to shore in thecrowded tender a speed-boat shot past them in a glitter of sunlit spray,bouncing on the face of the sea and swamping their bulwarks in its wash.In it sat Cuthbert the valet, and his enigmatic master.

****

There were two nights to wait in Aden for the little ship which was totake them to Africa. William and Corker saw the stuffed mermaid and thewells of Solomon. Corker bought some Japanese shawls and a set ofBenares trays; he had already acquired a number of cigarette boxes, anamber necklace and a model of Tutankhamen's sarcophagus during his fewhours in Cairo; his bedroom at the hotel was an emporium of OrientalArt. 'There's something about the East always gets me,' he said. 'Themissus won't know the old home when I've finished with it.'

These were his recreations. In his serious hours he attempted tointerview the Resident, and was rebuffed; tried the captain of a Britishsloop which was coaling for a cruise in the Persian Gulf; was againrebuffed; and finally spent two hours in conference with an Arab guidewho for twenty rupees supplied material for a detailed cable about thedefences of the settlement. 'No use our both covering it,' he said toWilliam. 'Your story had better be British unpreparedness. If it suitsthem, they'll be able to work that up into something at the office. Youknow--"Aden the focal point of British security in the threatened areastill sunk in bureaucratic lethargy"--that kind of thing.'

'Good heavens, how can I say that?'

'That's easy, old boy. Just cable ADEN UNWARWISE.'

On the third morning they sailed for the little Italian port from whichthe railway led into the mountains of independent Ishmaelia.

****

In London it was the night of the Duchess of Stayle's ball. John Bootwent there because he was confident of finding Mrs Stitch. It was thekind of party she liked. For half an hour he hunted her among thecolumns and arches. On all sides stood dignified and vivacious groups ofthe older generation. Elderly princesses sat in little pools ofdeportment, while the younger generation loped between buffet andballroom in subdued and self-conscious couples. Dancing was not animportant part of the entertainment; at eleven o'clock the supper-roomwas full of elderly, hearty eaters.

John Boot sought Mrs Stitch high and low; soon it would be too late forshe invariably went home at one; she was indeed just speaking of goingwhen he finally ran her to earth in the Duke's dressing-room, sitting ona bed, eating foie-gras with an ivory shoe-horn. Three elderly admirersglared at him.

'John,' she said, 'how very peculiar to see you. I thought you were atthe war.'

'Well, Julia, I'm afraid we must go,' said the three old boys.

'Wait for me downstairs,' said Mrs Stitch.

'You won't forget the Opera on Friday?' said one.

'I hope Josephine will like the jade horse,' said another.

'You will be at Alice's on Sunday?' said the third.

When they had gone, Mrs Stitch said: 'I must go too. Just tell me inthree words what happened. The last thing I heard was from Lord Copper.He telephoned to say you had left.'

'Not a word from him. It's been very awkward.'

'The American girl?'

'Yes, exactly. We said goodbye a fortnight ago. She gave me a lucky pigto wear round my neck--it was made of bog-oak from Tipperary. We wereboth very genuinely affected. Since then I haven't dared go out oranswer the telephone. I only came here because I knew she wouldn't becoming.'

'Poor John. I wonder what went wrong... I like the bit about the pigvery much.'

Book Two
Stones £20

Chapter One

Ishmaelia, that hitherto happy commonwealth, cannot conveniently beapproached from any part of the world. It lies in the North-Easterlyquarter of Africa, giving colour by its position and shape to themetaphor often used of it--'the Heart of the Dark Continent'. Desert,forest and swamp, frequented by furious nomads, protect its approachesfrom those more favoured regions which the statesmen of Berlin andGeneva have put to school under European masters. An inhospitable raceof squireens cultivate the highlands and pass their days in the perfectleisure which those peoples alone enjoy who are untroubled by thespeculative or artistic itch.

Various courageous Europeans in the seventies of the last century cameto Ishmaelia, or near it, furnished with suitable equipment of cuckooclocks, phonographs, opera hats, draft-treaties and flags of the nationswhich they had been obliged to leave. They came as missionaries,ambassadors, tradesmen, prospectors, natural scientists. None returned.They were eaten, every one of them; some raw, others stewed andseasoned--according to local usage and the calendar (for the better sortof Ishmaelites have been Christian for many centuries and will notpublicly eat human flesh, uncooked, in Lent, without special and costlydispensation from their bishop). Punitive expeditions suffered more harmthan they inflicted and in the nineties humane counsels prevailed. TheEuropean powers independently decided that they did not want thatprofitless piece of territory; that the one thing less desirable thanseeing a neighbour established there, was the trouble of taking itthemselves. Accordingly, by general consent, it was ruled off the mapsand its immunity guaranteed. As there was no form of government commonto the peoples thus segregated, nor tie of language, history, habit orbelief, they were called a Republic. A committee of jurists, drawn fromthe Universities, composed a constitution, providing a bicamerallegislature, proportional representation by means of the singletransferable vote, an executive removable by the President on therecommendation of both houses, an independent judicature, religiousliberty, secular education, habeas corpus, free trade, joint stockbanking, chartered corporations, and numerous other agreeable features.A pious old darky named Mr Samuel Smiles Jackson from Alabama was put inas the first President; a choice whose wisdom seemed to be confirmed byhistory for, forty years later, a Mr Rathbone Jackson held hisgrandfather's office in succession to his father Pankhurst, while thechief posts of the state were held by Messrs Garnett Jackson, ManderJackson, Huxley Jackson, his uncle and brothers, and by Mrs Athol (neeJackson) his aunt. So strong was the love which the Republic bore thefamily that General Elections were known as 'Jackson Ngomas' whereverand whenever they were held. These, by the constitution, should havebeen quinquennial, but since it was found in practice that difficulty ofcommunication rendered it impossible for the constituencies to votesimultaneously, the custom had grown up for the receiving officer andthe Jackson candidate to visit in turn such parts of the Republic aswere open to travel, and entertain the neighbouring chiefs to a six daysbanquet at their camp, after which the stupefied aborigines recordedtheir votes in the secret and solemn manner prescribed by theconstitution.

It had been found expedient to merge the functions of national defenceand inland revenue in an office then held in the capable hands ofGeneral Gollancz Jackson; his forces were in two main companies, theIshmaelite Mule Tax-gathering Force and the Rifle Excisemen with a smallArtillery Death Duties Corps for use against the heirs of powerfulnoblemen; it was their job to raise the funds whose enlightenedexpenditure did so much to enhance President Jackson's prestige amongthe rare foreign visitors to his capital. Towards the end of eachfinancial year the General's flying columns would lumber out into thesurrounding country on the heels of the fugitive population and returnin time for budget day laden with the spoils of the less nimble; coffeeand hides, silver coinage, slaves, livestock and firearms would beassembled and assessed in the Government warehouses; salaries would bepaid, covering in kind deposited at the bank for the national overdraft,and donations made, in the presence of the diplomatic corps, to theJackson Non-sectarian Co-educational Technical Schools and other humaneinstitutions. On the foundation of the League of Nations, Ishmaeliabecame a member.

Under this liberal and progressive regime, the republic may be said, insome way, to have prospered. It is true that the capital city ofJacksonburg became unduly large, its alleys and cabins thronged withlandless men of native and alien blood, while the country immediatelysurrounding it became depopulated, so that General Gollancz Jackson wasobliged to start earlier and march further in search of the taxes; buton the main street there were agencies for many leading American andEuropean firms; there was, moreover, a railway to the Red Sea coast,bringing a steady stream of manufactured imports which relieved theIshmaelites of the need to practise their few clumsy crafts, while theadverse trade balance was rectified by an elastic system of bankruptcylaw. In the remote provinces, beyond the reach of General Gollancz, theIshmaelites followed their traditional callings of bandit, slave orgentlemen of leisure, happily ignorant of their connection with the townof which a few of them, perhaps, had vaguely and incredulously heard.

Occasional travelling politicians came to Jacksonburg, were entertainedand conducted round the town, and returned with friendly reports. Biggame hunters on safari from the neighbouring dominions sometimes strayedinto the hinterland and, if they returned at all, dined out for years tocome on the experience. Until a few months before William Boot'sdeparture no one in Europe knew of the deep currents that were flowingin Ishmaelite politics; nor did many people know of them in Ishmaelia.

It began during Christmas week with a domestic row in the Jacksonfamily. By Easter the city, so lately a model of internal amity, wasthreatened by civil war.

A Mr Smiles Soum was reputed to lead the Fascists. He was onlyone-quarter Jackson (being grandson in the female line of PresidentSamuel Jackson), and three-quarters pure Ishmaelite. He was thus byright of cousinship, admitted to the public pay-roll, but he ranked lowin the family and had been given a no more lucrative post than that ofAssistant Director of Public Morals.

Quarrels among the ruling family were not unusual, particularly in theaftermath of weddings, funerals, and other occasions of corporatefestivity, and were normally settled by a readjustment of publicoffices. It was common knowledge in the bazaars and drink-shops that MrSmiles was not satisfied with his post at the Ministry of Public Morals,but it was a breach of precedent and, some thought, the portent of a newera in Ishmaelite politics, when he followed up his tiff by disappearingfrom Jacksonburg and issuing a manifesto, which, it was thought by thosewho knew him best, he could not conceivably have composed himself.

The White Shirt movement which he called into being had little in commonwith the best traditions of Ishmaelite politics. Briefly his thesis wasthis: the Jacksons were effete, tyrannical and alien, the Ishmaeliteswere a white race who, led by Smiles, must purge themselves of the Negrotaint; the Jacksons had kept Ishmaelia out of the Great War and had thusdeprived her of the fruits of victory; the Jacksons had committedIshmaelia to the control of international Negro finance and secretsubversive Negro Bolshevism, by joining the League of Nations; they wereresponsible for the various endemic and epidemic diseases that ravagedcrops, livestock and human beings; all Ishmaelites who were sufferingthe consequences of imprudence or ill-fortune in their financial ormatrimonial affairs were the victims of international Jacksonism; Smileswas their Leader.

The Jacksons rose above it. Life in Ishmaelia went on as before and theArmenian merchant in Main Street who had laid in a big consignment ofwhite cotton shirtings found himself with the stuff on his hands. InMoscow, Harlem, Bloomsbury and Liberia, however, keener passions werearoused. In a hundred progressive weeklies and Left Study Circles thematter was taken up and the cause of the Jacksons restarted inideological form.

Smiles represented international finance, the subjugation of the worker,sacerdotalism; Ishmaelia was black, the Jacksons were black, collectivesecurity and democracy and the dictatorship of the proletariat wereblack. Most of this was unfamiliar stuff to the Jacksons but tangibleadvantages followed. A subscription list was opened in London andreceived support in chapels and universities; wide publicity was givento the receipt in Ishmaelia of three unused penny stamps addressed tothe President by 'A little worker's daughter in Bedford Square'.

In the chief cities of Europe a crop of 'Patriot Consulates' sprang updevoted to counter-propaganda.

Newspapermen flocked to Jacksonburg. It was the wet season when businesswas usually at a standstill; everything boomed this year. At the end ofAugust the rains would stop. Then, everybody outside Ishmaelia agreed,there would be a war. But, with the happy disposition of their race, theIshmaelites settled down to exploit and enjoy their temporary goodfortune.

****

The Hotel Liberty, Jacksonburg, was folded in the peace of Saturdayafternoon, soon to be broken by the arrival of the weekly train from thecoast but, at the moment, at four o'clock, serene and all-embracing. Thewireless station was shut and the fifteen journalists were at rest. MrsEarl Russell Jackson padded in stockinged feet across the bare boards ofthe lounge looking for a sizeable cigar-end, found one, screwed it intoher pipe, and settled down in the office rocking-chair to read herbible. Outside--and, in one or two places, inside--the rain fell intorrents. It rang on the iron roof in a continuous, restful monotone; itswirled and gurgled in the channels it had cut in the terrace outside;it seeped under the front door in an opaque pool. Mrs Earl RussellJackson puffed at her pipe, licked her thumb and turned a page of thegood book. It was very pleasant when all those noisy white men were shutaway in their rooms; quite like old times; they brought in good moneythese journalists--heavens what she was charging them!--but they were agreat deal of trouble; brought in a nasty kind of customer too--Hindoos,Ishmaelites from up country, poor whites and near-whites from the town,police officers, the off-scourings of the commercial cafés and dominosaloons, interpreters and informers and guides, not the kind of personMrs Earl Russell Jackson liked to see about her hotel. What with washingand drinking and telephoning and driving about in the mud in taxi-cabsand developing films and cross-questioning her old and respectablepatrons, there never seemed a moment's peace.

Even now they were not all idle; in their austere trade they hadforfeited the arts of leisure.

Upstairs in his room Mr Wenlock Jakes was spending the afternoon at workon his forthcoming book Under the Ermine. It was to be a survey of theundercurrents of English political and social life. 'I shall neverforget, [he typed], the evening of King Edward's abdication. I wasdining at the Savoy Grill as the guest of Silas Shock of the New YorkGuardian. His guests were well chosen, six of the most influential menand women in England; men and women such as only exist in England, whoare seldom in the news but who control the strings of the nationalpulse. On my left was Mrs Tiffin the wife of the famous publisher;on the other side was Prudence Blank, who has been described to meas "the Mary Selena Wilmark of Britain", opposite was John Titmusswhose desk at the News Chronicle holds more secrets of state thanany ambassador's... big business was represented by John Nought, agentof the Credential Assurance Co.... I at once raised the question of thehour. Not one of that brilliant company expressed any opinion. There,in a nutshell, you have England, her greatness--and her littleness.'

Jakes was to be paid an advance of 20,000 dollars for this book.

In the next room were four furious Frenchmen. They were dressed asthough for the cinema camera in breeches, open shirts, and brand-newchocolate-coloured riding boots cross-laced from bottom to top; eachcarried a bandolier of cartridges round his waist and a revolver-holsteron his hip. Three were seated, the fourth strode before them, jinglinghis spurs as he turned and stamped on the bare boards. They werecomposing a memorandum of their wrongs.

We, the undersigned members of the French Press in Ishmaelia, they hadwritten, protest categorically and in the most emphatic manner againstthe partiality shown against us by the Ishmaelite Press Bureau and atthe discourteous lack of co-operation of our so-called colleagues...

In the next room, round a little table, sat Shumble, Whelper, Pigge anda gigantic, bemused Swede. Shumble and Whelper and Pigge were specialcorrespondents; the Swede was resident correspondent to a syndicate ofScandinavian papers--and more; he was Swedish Vice-Consul, head surgeonat the Swedish Mission Hospital, and proprietor of the combined Tea,Bible and Chemist shop which was the centre of European life inJacksonburg; a pre-crisis resident of high standing. All the journaliststried to make friends with him; all succeeded; but they found himdisappointing as a news source.

These four were playing cards.

'I will go four no hearts,' said Erik Olafsen.

'You can't do that.'

'Why cannot I do that? I have no hearts.'

'But we explained just now...'

'Will you please be so kind and explain another time?'

They explained; the cards were thrown in and the patient Swede collectedthem in his enormous hand. Shumble began to deal.

'Where's Hitchcock today?' he asked.

'He's onto something. I tried his door. It was locked.'

'His shutters have been up all day.'

'I looked through the keyhole,' said Shumble. 'You bet he's ontosomething.'

'D'you think he's found the fascist headquarters?'

'Wouldn't put it past him. Whenever that man disappears you can be surethat a big story is going to break.'

'If you please what is Hitchcock?' asked the Swede.

****

Mr Pappenhacker of The Twopence was playing with a toy train--a relicof College at Winchester, with which he invariably travelled. In hisyouth he had delighted to address it in Latin Alcaics and to deriveGreek names for each part of the mechanism. Now it acted as a sedativeto his restless mind.

The Twopence did not encourage habits of expensive cabling. That dayhe had composed a long 'turnover' on Ishmaelite conditions and posted itin the confidence that, long before it arrived at London, conditionswould be unrecognizable.

Six other journalists of six nationalities were spending their day ofleisure in this hotel. Time lay heavily on them. The mail train was duesometime that evening to relieve their tedium.

Fifty yards distant in the annexe, secluded from the main block of thehotel by a waterlogged garden, lay Sir Jocelyn Hitchcock, fast asleep.The room was in half-darkness; door and windows were barred. On thetable, beside his typewriter, stood a primus stove. There was a smallheap of tins and bottles in the corner. On the walls hung the official,wildly deceptive map of Ishmaelia; a little flag in the centre ofJacksonburg marked Hitchcock's present position. He slept gently; hislips under the fine, white moustache curved in a barely perceptiblesmile of satisfaction. For reasons of his own he was in retirement.

And the granite sky wept.

****

In the rainy season it was impossible to say, within twelve hours or so,the time of the train's arrival. Today it had made a good journey. Itwas still light when the telephone rang in Mrs Jackson's office to tellher that it had left the last station and would soon be there. Instantlythe Hotel Liberty came to life. The hall-boy donned his peaked cap andset out with Mrs Jackson to look for clients. Shumble, Whelper and Piggeleft their game and put on their mackintoshes; the Frenchmen struggledinto Spahi capes. The six other journalists emerged from their rooms andbegan shouting for taxis. Paleologue, Jakes's jackal, reported for dutyand was despatched to observe arrivals. The greater, and more forbiddingpart of the population of Jacksonburg was assembled on the platform togreet William's arrival.

He and Corker had had a journey of constant annoyance. For three daysthey had been crawling up from the fierce heat of the coast into thebleak and sodden highlands. There were four first-class compartments ontheir train; one was reserved for a Swiss ticket collector. In theremaining three, in painful proximity, sat twenty-four Europeans, ten ofwhom were the advance party of the Excelsior Movie-Sound News ofAmerica. The others were journalists. They had lunched, dined and sleptat the rest houses on the line. During the first day, when they werecrossing the fiery coastal plain, there had been no ice; on the secondnight, in the bush, no mosquito nets; on the third night, in themountains, no blankets. Only the little Swiss official enjoyed tolerablecomfort. At every halt fellow employees brought him refreshment--frostedbeer, steaming coffee, baskets of fruit; at the restaurants there werespecial dishes for him and rocking-chairs in which to digest them; therewere bedrooms with fine brass bedsteads and warm hip-baths. When Corkerand his friends discovered that he was only the ticket collector theyfelt very badly about this.

Some time during the second day's journey the luggage van came detachedfrom the rest of the train. Its loss was discovered that evening whenthe passengers wanted their mosquito nets.

'Here's where that little beaver can be useful,' said Corker.

He and William went to ask his help. He sat in his rocking chair smokinga thin, mild cheroot, his hands folded over his firm little dome ofstomach. They stood and told him of their troubles. He thanked them andsaid it was quite all right.

'Such things often happen. I always travel with all my possessions inthe compartment with me.'

'I shall write to the Director of the Line about it,' said Corker.

'Yes that is the best thing to do. It is always possible that the vanwill be traced.'

'I've got some very valuable curios in my luggage.'

'Unfortunate. I am afraid it is less likely to be recovered.'

'D'you know who we are?'

'Yes,' said the Swiss, with a little shudder. 'Yes, I know.'

By the end of the journey Corker had come to hate this man. And hisnettle-rash was on him again. He reached Jacksonburg in a bad humour.

Shumble, Whelper and Pigge knew Corker; they had loitered together ofold on many a doorstep and forced an entry into many a stricken home.'Thought you'd be on this train,' said Shumble. 'Your name's posted forcollect facilities in the radio station. What sort of trip?'

'Lousy. How are things here?'

'Lousy. Who's with you?'

Corker told him, adding: 'Who's here already?'

Shumble told him.

'All the old bunch.'

'Yes, and there's a highbrow yid from The Twopence--but we don't counthim.'

'No, no competition there.'

'The Twopence isn't what you would call a newspaper is it?...Still there's enough to make things busy and there's more coming. Theyseem to have gone crazy about this story at home. Jakes is urgentingeight hundred words a day.'

'Jakes here? Well there must be something in it.'

'Who's the important little chap with the beard?'--they looked towardsthe customs shed through which the Swiss was being obsequiouslyconducted.

'You'd think he was an ambassador,' said Corker bitterly.

The black porter of the Hotel Liberty interrupted them. Corker began todescribe in detail his lost elephant. Shumble disappeared in the crowd.

'Too bad, too bad,' said the porter. 'Very bad men on railway.'

'But it was registered through.'

'Maybe he'll turn up.'

'Do things often get lost on your damned awful line?'

'Most always.'

All round them the journalists were complaining about their losses.'...Five miles of film,' said the leader of the Excelsior Movie-SoundNews. 'How am I going to get that through the expenses department?'

'Very bad men on railway. They like film plenty--him make good fire.'

William alone was reconciled to the disaster; his cleft sticks werebehind him; it was as though, on a warm day, he had suddenly shed anenormous, fur-lined motoring-coat.

****

So far as their profession allowed them time for such soft feelings,Corker and Pigge were friends.

'...It was large and very artistic,' said Corker, describing hiselephant, 'just the kind of thing Madge likes.'

Pigge listened sympathetically. The bustle was over. William and Corkerhad secured a room together at the Liberty; their sparse hand-luggagewas unpacked and Pigge had dropped in for a drink.

'What's the situation?' asked William, when Corker had exhausted hisinformation--though not his resentment--about the shawls and cigaretteboxes.

'Lousy,' said Pigge.

'I've been told to go to the front.'

'That's what we all want to do. But in the first place there isn't anyfront and in the second place we couldn't get to it if there was. Youcan't move outside the town without a permit and you can't get apermit.'

'Then what are you sending?' asked Corker.

'Colour stuff,' said Pigge, with great disgust. 'Preparations in thethreatened capital, soldiers of fortune, mystery men, foreigninfluences, volunteers... there isn't any hard news. The fascistheadquarters are up country somewhere in the mountains. No one knowswhere. They're going to attack when the rain stops in about ten days.You can't get a word out of the government. They won't admit there isa crisis.'

'What, not with Jakes and Hitchcock here?' said Corker in wonder.'What's this President like anyway?'

'Lousy.'

'Where is Hitchcock, by the way?'

'That's what we all want to know.'

****

'Where's Hitchcock?' asked Jakes.

Paleologue shook his head sadly. He was finding Jakes a hard master. Forover a week he had been on his pay-roll. It seemed a lifetime. But thepay was enormous and Paleologue was a good family man; he had two wivesto support and countless queer-coloured children on whom he lavished hislove. Until the arrival of the newspaper men--that decisive epoch inIshmaelite social history--he had been dragoman and interpreter at theBritish Legation, on wages which--though supplemented from time to timeby the sale to his master's colleagues of any waste-paper he could findlying around the Chancellery--barely sufficed for the necessaries of hishousehold; occasionally he had been able to provide amusement forbachelor attachés; occasionally he sold objects of native art to theladies of the compound. But it had been an exiguous living. Now he wasgetting fifty American dollars a week. It was a wage beyond the boundsof his wildest ambition... but Mr Jakes was very exacting and veryperemptory.

'Who was on the train?'

'No one except the newspaper gentlemen and M Giraud.'

'Who's he?'

'He is in the Railway. He went down to the coast with his wife lastweek, to see her off to Europe.'

'Yes, yes, I remember. That was the "panic-stricken refugees" story. Noone else?'

'No, Mr Jakes.'

'Well go find Hitchcock.'

'Yes, sir.'

Jakes turned his attention to his treatise. The dominant member of thenew cabinet, he typed, was colourful Kingsley-Wood...

****

Nobody knew exactly at what time or through what channels word wentround the Hotel Liberty that Shumble had got a story. William heard itfrom Corker who heard it from Pigge. Pigge had guessed it from somethingodd in Shumble's manner during dinner--something abstracted, somethingof high excitement painfully restrained. He confided in Whelper. 'He'sbeen distinctly rummy ever since he came back from the station. Have younoticed it?'

'Yes,' said Whelper. 'It sticks out a mile. If you ask me he's gotsomething under his hat.'

'Just what I thought,' said Pigge gloomily.

And before bedtime everyone in the hotel knew it.

The French were furious. They went in a body to their Legation. 'It istoo much,' they said. 'Shumble is receiving secret information from theGovernment. Hitchcock of course is pro-British and now, at a moment likethis, when as Chairman of the Foreign Press Association he shouldforward our protest officially to the proper quarter, he hasdisappeared.'

'Gentlemen,' said the Minister. 'Gentlemen. It is Saturday night. NoIshmaelite official will be available until noon on Monday.'

'The Press Bureau is draconic, arbitrary and venal; it is in the handsof a clique; we appeal for justice.'

'Certainly, without fail, on Monday afternoon'...

****

'We'll stay awake in shifts,' said Whelper, 'and listen. He may talk inhis sleep.'

'I suppose you've searched his papers?'

'Useless. He never takes a note'...

****

Paleologue threw up his hands hopelessly.

'Have his boy bring you his message on the way to the wireless station.'

'Mr Shumble always take it himself.'

'Well go find out what it is. I'm busy'...

****

Shumble sat in the lounge radiating importance. Throughout the eveningeveryone in turn sat by his side, offered him whisky and casuallyreminded him of past acts of generosity. He kept his own counsel. Eventhe Swede got wind of what was going and left home to visit the hotel.

'Schombol,' he said, 'I think you have some good news, no?'

'Me?' said Shumble. 'Wish I had.'

'But forgive me please, everyone say you have some good news. Now I haveto telegraph to my newspapers in Scandinavia. Will you please tell mewhat your news is?'

'I don't know anything, Erik.'

'What a pity. It is so long since I sent my paper any good news.'

And he mounted his motor cycle and drove sadly away into the rain.

****

At a banquet given in his honour Sir Jocelyn Hitchcock once modestlyattributed his great success in life to the habit of 'getting up earlierthan the other fellow'. But this was partly metaphorical, partly falseand in any case wholly relative, for journalists are as a rule laterisers. It was seldom that in England, in those night-refuges theycalled their homes, Shumble, Whelper, Pigge or Corker reached thebathroom before ten o'clock. Nor did they in Jacksonburg, for there wasno bath in the Hotel Liberty; but they and their fellows had all beenawake since dawn.

This was due to many causes--the racing heart, nausea, dry mouth andsmarting eyes, the false hangover produced by the vacuous mountain air;to the same symptoms of genuine hangover for, with different emotions,they had been drinking deeply the evening before in the anxiety overShumble's scoop; but more especially to the structural defects of thebuilding. The rain came on sharp at sunrise and every bedroom had a leaksomewhere in its iron ceiling. And with the rain and the drips came therattle of Wenlock Jakes's typewriter, as he hammered away at anotherchapter of Under the Ermine. Soon the bleak passages resounded withcries of 'Boy!' 'Water!' 'Coffee!'

As early arrivals Shumble, Whelper and Pigge might, like the Frenchmen,have had separate rooms, but they preferred to live at close quartersand watch one another's movements. The cinema men had had little choice.There were two rooms left; the Contacts and Relations PioneerCo-ordinating Director occupied one; the rest of the outfit had theother.

'Boy!' cried Corker, standing barefoot in a dry spot at the top of thestairs. 'Boy!'

'Boy!' cried Whelper.

'Boy!' cried the Frenchmen. 'It is formidable. The types attend to noone except the Americans and the English.'

'They have been bribed. I saw Shumble giving money to one of the boysyesterday.'

'We must protest.'

'I have protested.'

'We must protest again. We must demonstrate.'

'Boy! Boy! Boy!' shouted everyone in that hotel, but nobody came.

In the annexe, Sir Jocelyn Hitchcock slipped a raincoat over his pyjamasand crept like a cat into the bushes.

****

Presently Paleologue arrived to make his morning report to his master.He met Corker at the top of the stairs. 'You got to have boy foryourself in this country,' he said.

'Yes,' said Corker. 'It seems I ought.'

'I fix him. I find you very good boy from Adventist Mission, read,write, speak English, sing hymns, everything.'

'Sounds like hell to me.'

'Please?'

'Oh, all right, it doesn't matter. Send him along.'

In this way Paleologue was able to supply servants for all thenewcomers. Later the passages were clustered with moon-facedmission-taught Ishmaelites. These boys had many responsibilities. Theyhad to report their masters' doings, morning and evening, to the secretpolice; they had to steal copies of their masters' cables for WenlockJakes. The normal wage for domestic service was a dollar a week; thejournalists paid five, but Paleologue pocketed the difference. In themeantime they formulated new and ingenious requests for cash inadvance--for new clothes, funerals, weddings, fines, and entirelyimaginary municipal taxes: whatever they exacted, Paleologue came toknow about it and levied his share.

****

Inside the bedroom it was sunless, draughty and damp; all round therewas rattling and shouting and tramping and the monotonous splash andpatter and gurgle of rain. Corker's clothing lay scattered about theroom. Corker sat on his bed stirring condensed milk into his tea. 'Timeyou were showing a leg, brother,' he said.

'Yes.'

'If you ask me we were all a bit tight last night.'

'Yes.'

'Feeling lousy?'

'Yes.'

'It'll soon pass off when you get on your feet. Are my things in yourway?'

'Yes.'

Corker lit his pipe and a frightful stench filled the room. 'Don't thinkmuch of this tobacco,' he said. 'Home grown. I bought it off a nigger onthe way up. Care to try some?'

'No, thanks,' said William and rose queasily from his bed.

While they dressed Corker spoke in a vein of unaccustomed pessimism.'This isn't the kind of story I'm used to,' he said. 'We aren't gettinganywhere. We've got to work out a routine, make contacts, dig up somenews sources, jolly up the locals a bit. I don't feel settled.'

'Is that my toothbrush you're using?'

'Hope not. Has it got a white handle?'

'Yes.'

'Then I am. Silly mistake to make; mine's green... but, as I wassaying, we've got to make friends in this town. Funny thing, I don't getthat sense of popularity I expect.' He looked at himself searchingly inthe single glass. 'Suffer much from dandruff?'

'Not particularly.'

'I do. They say it comes from acidity. It's a nuisance. Gets all overone's collar and one has to look smart in our job. Good appearance ishalf the battle.'

'D'you mind if I have my brushes?'

'Not a bit, brother, just finished with them... Between ourselvesthat's always been Shumble's trouble--bad appearance. But of course ajournalist is welcome everywhere, even Shumble. That's what's sopeculiar about this town. As a rule there is one thing you can alwayscount on in our job--popularity. There are plenty of disadvantages Igrant you, but you are liked and respected. Ring people up any hour ofthe day or night, butt into their houses uninvited, make them answer astring of damn-fool questions when they want to do something else--theylike it. Always a smile and the best of everything for the gentlemen ofthe Press. But I don't feel it here. I damn well feel the exactopposite. I ask myself are we known, loved and trusted and the answercomes back "No, Corker, you are not."'

There was a knock on the door, barely audible above the general hubbub,and Pigge entered.

'Morning, chaps. Cable for Corker. It came last night. Sorry it's beenopened. They gave it to me and I didn't notice the address.'

'Oh, no?' said Corker.

'Well, there's nothing in it. Shumble had that query yesterday.'

Corker read: INTERNATIONAL GENDARMERIE PROPOSED PREVENT CLASH TESTREACTIONS UNNATURAL. 'Crumbs they must be short of news in London.What's Gendarmerie?'

'A cissy word for cops,' said Pigge.

'Well it's a routine job. I suppose I must do something about it. Comeround with me... We may make some contacts,' he added not veryhopefully.

Mrs Earl Russell Jackson was in the lounge. 'Good morning, madam,' saidCorker, 'and how are you today?'

'I aches,' said Mrs Jackson with simple dignity. 'I aches terrible allround the sit-upon. It's the damp.'

'The Press are anxious for your opinion upon a certain question, MrsJackson.'

'Aw, go ask somebody else. They be coming to mend that roof just asquick as they can and they can't come no quicker than that not for thePress nor nobody.'

'See what I mean, brother--not popular.' Then turning again to MrsJackson with his most elaborate manner he said, 'Mrs Jackson youmisunderstand me. This is a matter of public importance. What do thewomen of Ishmaelia think of the proposal to introduce a force ofinternational police?'

Mrs Jackson took the question badly. 'I will not stand for being calleda woman in my own house,' she said. 'And I've never had the police herebut once and that was when I called them myself for to take out acustomer that went lunatic and hanged himself.' And she swept wrathfullyaway to her office and her rocking-chair.

'Staunchly anti-interventionist,' said Corker. 'Doyen of Jacksonburghostesses pans police project as unwarrantable interference withsanctity of Ishmaelite home... but it's not the way I'm used to beingtreated.'

They went to the front door to call a taxi. Half a dozen were waiting inthe courtyard; their drivers, completely enveloped in sodden blankets,dozed on the front seats. The hotel guard prodded one of them with themuzzle of his gun. The bundle stirred; a black face appeared, then abrilliant smile. The car lurched forward through the mud.

'The morning round,' said Corker. 'Where to first?'

'Why not the station to ask about the luggage?'

'Why not? Station,' he roared at the chauffeur. 'Understand--station?Puff-puff.'

'All right,' said the chauffeur, and drove off at break-neck speedthrough the rain.

'I don't believe this is the way,' said William.

They were bowling up the main street of Jacksonburg. A strip of tarmacran down the middle; on either side were rough tracks for mules, men,cattle and camels; beyond these the irregular outline of the commercialquarter; a bank in shoddy concrete, a Greek provisions store in timberand tin, the Café de La Bourse, the Carnegie Library, the Ciné-Parlant,and numerous gutted sites, relics of an epidemic of arson some yearsback when an Insurance Company had imprudently set up shop in the city.

'I'm damn well sure it's not,' said Corker. 'Hi, you, Station, youblack booby.'

The coon turned round in his seat and smiled. 'All right,' he said.

The car swerved off the motor road and bounced perilously among thecaravans. The chauffeur turned back, shouted opprobriously at a cameldriver and regained the tarmac.

Armenian liquor, Goanese tailoring, French stationery, Italian hardware,Swiss plumbing, Indian haberdashery, the statue of the first PresidentJackson, the statue of the second President Jackson, the AmericanWelfare Centre, the latest and most successful innovation in Ishmaelitelife--Popotakis's Ping-Pong Parlour--sped past in the rain. The muletrains plodded by, laden with rock salt and cartridges and paraffin forthe villages of the interior.

'Kidnapped,' said Corker cheerfully. 'That's what's happened to us. Whata story.'

But at last they came to a stop.

'This isn't the station, you baboon.'

'Yes, all right.'

They were at the Swedish Consulate, Surgery, Bible and Tea Shop. ErikOlafsen came out to greet them.

'Good morning. Please to come in.'

'We told this ape to drive us to the station.'

'Yes, it is a custom here. When they have a white man they do notunderstand, they always drive him to me. Then I can explain. But pleaseto come in. We are just to start our Sunday hymn singing.'

'Sorry, brother. Have to wait till next Sunday. We've got work to do.'

'They say Schombol has some news.'

'Not really?'

'No, not really. I asked him... but you can do no work here onSunday. Everything is close.'

So they found. They visited a dozen barred doors and returneddisconsolately to luncheon. One native whom they questioned fledprecipitately at the word 'police'. That was all they could learn aboutlocal reactions.

'We've got to give it up for the day,' said Corker. 'Reactions are easyanyway. I'll just say that the government will co-operate with thedemocracies of the world in any measures calculated to promote peace andjustice, but are confident in their ability to maintain order withoutforeign intervention. This is going to be a day of rest for Corker.'

Shumble kept his story under his hat and furtively filed a longmessage--having waited for a moment when the wireless station was emptyof his colleagues.

So the rain fell and the afternoon and evening were succeeded by anothernight and another morning.

****

William and Corker went to the Press Bureau. Dr Benito, the director,was away but his clerk entered their names in his ledger and gave themcards of identity. They were small orange documents, originally printedfor the registration of prostitutes. The space for thumb-print was nowfilled with a passport photograph and at the head the word 'journalist'substituted in neat Ishmaelite characters.

'What sort of bloke is this Benito?' Corker asked.

'Creepy,' said Pigge.

****

They visited their Consulate, five miles out of town in the Legationcompound. Here, too, they had to register and, in addition, buy a guineastamp. The Vice-Consul was a young man with untidy ginger hair. When hetook William's passport he stared and said, 'By God, you're Beastly.'

William said, 'Moke.'

These two had known each other at their private school. Corker wasnonplussed.

'What the hell are you doing here?' said the Vice-Consul.

'I'm supposed to be a journalist.'

'God, how funny. Come to dinner?'

'Yes.'

'Tonight?'

'Yes.'

'Grand.'

Outside the door Corker said, 'He might have asked me too. Just the kindof contact I can do with.'

****

At lunch-time that day Shumble's story broke.

Telegrams in Jacksonburg were delivered irregularly and rathercapriciously, for none of the messengers could read. The usual methodwas to wait until half a dozen had accumulated and then send a messengerto hawk them about the most probable places until they were claimed. Onprecisely such an errand a bowed old warrior arrived in the dining-roomof the Liberty and offered William and Corker a handful of envelopes.'Righto, old boy,' said Corker, 'I'll take charge of these.' He handedthe man a tip, was kissed on the knee in return, and proceeded to glancethrough the bag. 'One for you, one for me, one for everyone in thebunch.'

William opened his. It read: BADLY LEFT DISGUISED SOVIET AMBASSADOR RUSHFOLLOW BEAST. 'Will you please translate?'

'Bad news, brother. Look at mine. ECHO SPLASHING SECRET ARRIVAL REDAGENT FLASH INTERVIEW UNNATURAL. Let's see some more.'

He opened six before he was caught. All dealt with the same topic. TheTwopence said: KINDLY INVESTIGATE AUTHENTICITY ALLEGED SPECIAL SOVIETDELEGATION STOP. CABLE DEFERRED RATE. Jakes's was the fullest: LONDONECHO REPORTS RUSSIAN ENVOY ARRIVED SATURDAY DISGUISED RAILWAY OFFICIALSTOP MOSCOW DENIES STOP DENY OR CONFIRM WITH DETAILS. Shumble's said:WORLD SCOOP CONGRATULATIONS CONTINUE ECHO.

'D'you see now?' said Corker.

'I think so.'

'It's that nasty bit of work with the beard. I knew he was going to giveus trouble.'

'But he is a railway employee. I saw him in the ticket office todaywhen I went to ask about my luggage.'

'Of course he is. But what good does that do us? Shumble's put the storyacross. Now we've got to find a red agent or boil.'

'Or explain the mistake.'

'Risky, old boy, and unprofessional. It's the kind of thing you can doonce or twice in a real emergency but it doesn't pay. They don't likeprinting denials--naturally. Shakes public confidence in the Press.Besides it looks as if we weren't doing our job properly. It would betoo easy if every time a chap got a scoop the rest of the bunch deniedit. And I will hand it to Shumble, it was a pretty idea... the beardhelped of course... might have thought of it myself if I hadn't beenso angry about the luggage.'

Other journalists were now crowding round claiming their radiograms.Corker surrendered them reluctantly. He had not had time to openPigge's. 'Here you are, brother,' he said. 'I've been guarding it foryou. Some of these chaps might want to see inside.'

'You don't say,' said Pigge coldly. 'Well, they're welcome.'

It was like all the rest. BOLSHEVIST MISSION REPORTED OVERTAKEN CONTROLRUSH FACTS.

The hunt was up. No one had time for luncheon that day. They werecombing the town for Russians.

Wenlock Jakes alone retained his composure. He ate in peace and thensummoned Paleologue. 'We're killing this story,' he said. 'Go round tothe Press Bureau and have Benito issue an official dementi before fouro'clock. See it's posted in the hotel and in the wireless station. Andput it about among the boys that the story's dead.'

He spoke gravely, for he hated to kill a good story.

So the word went round.

A notice was posted in French and English at all the chief Europeancentres of the capital.

It is categorically denied that there is any Russian diplomatic representative accredited to the Republic of Ishmaelia. Nor is there any truth in the report, spread by subversive interests, that a Russian national of any description whatever arrived in Jacksonburg last Saturday. The train was occupied exclusively by representatives of the foreign Press and an employee of the Railway.

GABRIEL BENITO
Minister of Foreign Affairs
and Propaganda.

The Press acted in unison and Shumble's scoop died at birth. Williamsent his first Press message from Ishmaelia: ALL ROT ABOUT BOLSHEVIK HEIS ONLY TICKET COLLECTOR ASS CALLED SHUMBLE THOUGHT HIS BEARD FALSE BUTITS PERFECTLY ALL RIGHT REALLY WILL CABLE AGAIN IF THERE IS ANY NEWSVERY WET HERE YOURS WILLIAM BOOT.--and went out to dinner with theBritish Vice-Consul.

****

Jack Bannister, known at the age of ten as 'Moke', inhabited a littlevilla in the Legation compound. He and William dined alone at acandle-lit table. Two silent boys in white gowns waited on them.Bannister's pet, but far from tame, cheetah purred beside the log fire.There were snipe, lately bagged by the first secretary. They drank somesherry, and some Burgundy and some port, and, to celebrate William'sarrival, a good deal more port. Then they settled themselves in easychairs and drank brandy. They talked about school and the birds andbeasts of Ishmaelia. Bannister showed his collection of skins and eggs.

They talked about Ishmaelia. 'No one knows if it's got any mineralsbecause no one's been to see. The map's a complete joke,' Bannisterexplained. 'The country has never been surveyed at all; half of it'sunexplored. Why, look here--' he took down a map from his shelves andopened it. 'See this place, Laku. It's marked as a town of some fivethousand inhabitants, fifty miles North of Jacksonburg. Well there neverhad been such a place. Laku is the Ishmaelite for "I don't know". Whenthe boundary commission were trying to get through to the Soudan in 1898they made a camp there and asked one of their boys the name of the hill,so as to record it in their log. He said "Laku", and they've copied itfrom map to map ever since. President Jackson likes the country to lookimportant in the atlases so when this edition was printed he had Lakumarked good and large. The French once appointed a Consul to Laku whenthey were getting active in this part of the world.'

Finally they touched on politics.

'I can't think why all you people are coming out here,' said Bannisterplaintively. 'You've no idea how it adds to my work. The Ministerdoesn't like it either. The F.O. are worrying the life out of him.'

'But isn't there going to be a war?'

'Well we usually have a bit of scrapping after the rains. There's a lotof bad men in the hills. Gollancz usually shoots up a few when he goesout after the taxes.'

'Is that all?'

'Wish we knew. There's something rather odd going on. Our information issimply that Smiles had a row with the Jacksons round about Christmastime and took to the hills. That's what everyone does out here when hegets in wrong with the Jacksons. We thought no more about it. The nextthing we hear is from Europe that half a dozen bogus consulates havebeen set up and that Smiles has declared a Nationalist Government. Wellthat doesn't make much sense. There never has been any Government inIshmaelia outside Jacksonburg, and, as you see, everything is dead quiethere. But Smiles is certainly getting money from someone and arms too, Iexpect. What's more we aren't very happy about the President. Six monthsago he was eating out of our hand. Now he's getting quite standoffish.There's a concession to a British Company to build the new coast road.It was all settled but for the signing last November. Now the Ministryof Works is jibbing and they say that the President is behind them. Ican't say I like the look of things, and having all you journalistsabout doesn't make it any easier.'

'We've been busy all day with a lunatic report about a Russian agent whohad come to take charge of the Government.'

'Oh,' said Bannister with sudden interest. 'They've got hold of that,have they? What was the story exactly?'

William told him.

'Yes they've got it pretty mixed.'

'D'you mean to say there's any truth in it?'

Bannister looked diplomatic for a minute and then said, 'Well I don'tsee any harm in your knowing. In fact from what the Minister said to metoday I rather think he'd welcome a little publicity on the subject.There is a Russian here, name of Smerdyakev, a Jew straight fromMoscow. He didn't come disguised as a ticket collector of course. He'sbeen here some time--in fact he came up by the same train as Hitchcockand that American chap. But he's lying low, living with Benito. We don'tquite know what he's up to; whatever it is, it doesn't suit H.M.G.'sbook. If you want a really interesting story I should look into him.'

It was half an hour's drive, at this season, from the Legation quarterto the centre of the town. William sat in the taxi, lurching andjolting, in a state of high excitement. In the last few days he hadcaught something of the professional infection of Corker and hiscolleagues, had shared their consternation at Hitchcock's disappearance,had rejoiced quietly when Shumble's scoop was killed. Now he hadsomething under his hat; a tip-off straight from headquarters, news ofhigh international importance. His might be the agency which would avertor precipitate a world war; he saw his name figuring in future historybooks '... the Ishmaelite crisis of that year whose true significancewas only realized and exposed through the resource of an Englishjournalist, William Boot...' Slightly dizzy with this prospect, aswith the wine he had drunk and the appalling rigours of the drive, hearrived at the Liberty to find the lights out in the lounge and all hiscolleagues in bed.

He woke Corker, with difficulty.

'For Christ's sake. You're tight. Go to bed, brother.'

'Wake up, I've got a story.'

At that electric word Corker roused himself and sat up in bed.

William told him, fully and proudly, all that he had learned at dinner.When he had finished, Corker lay back again among the crumpled pillows.'I might have known,' he said bitterly.

'But don't you see? This really is news. And we've got the Legationbehind us. The Minister wants it written up.'

Corker turned over on his side.

'That story's dead,' he remarked.

'But Shumble had it all wrong. Now we've got the truth. It may make aserious difference in Europe.'

Corker spoke again with finality. 'Now go to bed, there's a good chap.No one's going to print your story after the way it's been denied.Russian agents are off the menu, brother. It's a bad break for Shumble,I grant you. He got onto a good thing without knowing--and the falsebeard was a very pretty touch. His story was better than yours all roundand we killed it. Do turn out the light.'

****

In his room in the annexe Sir Jocelyn Hitchcock covered his keyhole withstamp-paper and, circumspectly, turned on a little shaded lamp. Heboiled some water and made himself a cup of cocoa; drank it; then hewent to the map on the wall and took out his flag, considered for aminute, hovering uncertainly over the unsealed peaks and unchartedrivers of that dark terrain, finally decided, and pinned it firmly inthe spot marked as the city of Laku. Then he extinguished his light andwent happily back to bed.

Chapter Two

Tuesday morning; rain at six; Jakes's typewriter at a quarter-past; thefirst cry of 'Boy' soon after.

'Boy,' shouted Corker. 'Where's my boy?'

'Your boy in plison,' said William's boy.

'Holy smoke, what's he been up to?'

'The police were angry with them,' said William's boy.

'Well, I want some tea.'

'All right. Just now.'

The Archbishop of Canterbury who, it is well known, is behind ImperialChemicals... wrote Jakes.

Shumble, Whelper and Pigge awoke and breakfasted and dressed, but theyscarcely spoke. 'Going out?' said Whelper at last.

'What d'you think?' said Shumble.

'Not sore about anything are you?' said Pigge.

'What d'you think?' said Shumble, leaving the room.

'He's sore,' said Pigge.

'About his story,' said Whelper.

'Who wouldn't be?' said Pigge.

Sir Jocelyn made himself some cocoa and opened a tin of tongue. Hecounted the remaining stores and found them adequate.

Presently William and Corker set out to look for news. 'Better try thestation first,' said Corker, 'just in case the luggage has turned up.'

They got a taxi.

'Station,' said Corker.

'All right,' said the driver, making off through the rain down mainstreet.

'Oh Christ, he's going to the Swede again.'

Sure enough, that was where they stopped.

'Good morning,' said Erik Olafsen. 'I am very delighted to see you. I amvery delighted to see all my colleagues. They come so often. Almostwhenever they take a taxi. Come in, please. Have you heard the news?'

'No,' said Corker.

'They are saying in the town that there was a Russian on the train onSaturday.'

'Yes, we've heard that one.'

'But it is a mistake.'

'You don't say.'

'Yes, indeed it is a mistake. The man was a Swiss ticket collector. Iknow him many years. But please to come in.'

William and Corker followed their host into his office. There was astove in the corner, and on the stove a big coffee pot; the smell ofcoffee filled the room. Olafsen poured out three cupfuls.

'You are comfortable at the Liberty, yes, no?'

'No,' said William and Corker simultaneously.

'I suppose not,' said Olafsen. 'Mrs Jackson is a very religious woman.She comes every Sunday to our musical evening. But I suppose you are notcomfortable. Do you know my friends Shumble and Whelper and Pigge?'

'Yes.'

'They are very nice gentlemen, and very clever. They say they are notcomfortable, too.'

The thought of so much discomfort seemed to overwhelm the Swede. Hegazed over the heads of his guests with huge, pale eyes that seemed tosee illimitable, receding vistas of discomfort, and himself a blindedand shackled Samson with his bandages and bibles and hot, strong coffeescarcely able to shift a pebble from the vast mountain which oppressedhumanity. He sighed.

The bell rang over the shop-door. Olafsen leapt to his feet. 'Excuse,'he said, 'the natives steal so terribly.'

But it was not a native. William and Corker could see the newcomer fromwhere they sat in the office. She was a white woman; a girl. A straggleof damp gold hair clung to her cheek. She wore red gumboots, shiny andwet, spattered with the mud of the streets. Her mackintosh dripped onthe linoleum and she carried a half open, dripping umbrella, held awayfrom her side; it was short and old; when it was new it had been quitecheap. She spoke in German, bought something, and went out again intothe rain.

'Who was the Garbo?' asked Corker when the Swede came back.

'She is a German lady. She has been here some time. She had a husbandbut I think she is alone now. He was to do some work outside the citybut I do not think she knows where he is. I suppose he will not comeback. She lives at the German pension with Frau Dressler. She came forsome medicine.'

'Looks as though she needed it,' said Corker. 'Well we must go to thestation.'

'Yes. There is a special train this evening. Twenty more journalists arearriving.'

'Christ.'

'For me it is a great pleasure to meet so many distinguished confrères.It is a great honour to work with them.'

'Decent bloke that,' said Corker, when they again drove off. 'You know,I never feel Swedes are really foreign. More like you and me, if you seewhat I mean.'

****

Three hours later Corker and William sat down to luncheon. The menu didnot vary at the Liberty; sardines, beef and chicken for luncheon; soup,beef and chicken for dinner; hard, homogeneous cubes of beef, sometimeswith Worcester Sauce, sometimes with tomato ketchup; fibrous spindles ofchicken with grey-green dented peas.

'Don't seem to have any relish for my food,' said Corker. 'It must bethe altitude.'

Everyone was in poor spirits; it had been an empty morning; the absenceof Hitchcock lay heavy as thunder over the hotel, and there was a delayof fourteen hours in transmission at the wireless station for WenlockJakes had been letting himself go on the local colour.

'The beef's beastly,' said Corker. 'Tell the manageress to come here...'

At a short distance Jakes was entertaining three blacks. Everyonewatched that table suspiciously and listened when they could, but heseemed to be talking mostly about himself. After a time the boy broughtthem chicken.

'Where's that manageress?' asked Corker.

'No come.'

'What d'you mean "no come"?'

'Manageress say only journalist him go boil himself,' said the boy moreexplicitly.

'What did I tell you? No respect for the Press. Savages.'

They left the dining-room. In the lounge, standing on one foot andleaning on his staff, was the aged warrior who delivered the telegrams.William's read:

PRESUME YOUR STEPTAKING INSURE SERVICE EVENT GENERAL UPBREAK.

'It's no good answering,' said Corker. 'They won't send till tomorrowmorning. Come to think of it,' he added moodily, 'there's no point inanswering anyway. Look at mine.'

CABLE FULLIER OFTENER PROMPTLIER STOP YOUR SERVICE BADLY BEATEN ALROUNDLACKING HUMAN INTEREST COLOUR DRAMA PERSONALITY HUMOUR INFORMATIONROMANCE VITALITY.

'Can't say that's not frank, can you?' said Corker. 'God rot 'em.'

That afternoon he took Shumble's place at the card table. William slept.

****

The special train got in at seven. William went to meet it, as dideveryone else.

The Ishmaelite Foreign Minister was there with his suite. ('Expecting anob,' said Corker.) The Minister wore a bowler hat and ample militarycape. The station-master set a little gilt chair for him where he satlike a daguerreotype, stiffly posed, a Victorian worthy in negative,black face, white whiskers, black hands. When the camera men began toshoot, his Staff scrambled to get to the front of the picture, eclipsingtheir chief. It was all the same to the camera men, who were merelypassing the time and had no serious hope that the portrait would be ofany interest.

At length the little engine came whistling round the bend, wood sparksdancing over the funnel. It stopped and at once the second- andthird-class passengers--natives and near-whites--tumbled onto theplatform, greeting their relatives with tears and kisses. The stationpolice got in among them, jostling the levantines and whacking thenatives with swagger-canes. The first-class passengers emerged moreslowly; they had already acquired that expression of anxious resentmentthat was habitual to whites in Jacksonburg. They were all, everyman-jack of them, journalists and photographers.

The distinguished visitor had not arrived. The Foreign Minister waiteduntil the last cramped and cautious figure emerged from the first-classcoach; then he exchanged civilities with the station-master and took hisleave. The station police made a passage of a kind, but it was only witha struggle that he regained his car.

The porters began to unload and take the registered baggage to thecustoms shed. On the head of the foremost William recognized his bundleof cleft sticks; then more of his possessions--the collapsible canoe,the mistletoe, the ant-proof wardrobes. There was a cry of delight fromCorker at his side. The missing van had arrived. Mysteriously it hadbecome attached to the special train; had in fact been transposed.Somewhere, in a siding at one of the numerous stops down the line, laythe newcomers' luggage. Their distress deepened but Corker was jubilantand before dinner that evening introduced his elephant to a place ofprominence in the bedroom. He also, in his good humour, introduced twophotographers for whom he had an affection.

'Tight fit,' they said.

'Not at all,' said Corker. 'Delighted to have your company, aren't we,Boot?'

One of them took William's newly-arrived camp bed; the other expressed areadiness to 'doss down' on the floor for the night. Everyone decided todoss down in the Liberty. Mrs Jackson recommended other lodgingavailable from friends of hers in the town. But, 'No,' they said, 'We'vegot to doss down with the bunch.'

The bunch now overflowed the hotel. There were close on fifty of them.All over the lounge and dining-room they sat and stood and leaned; somewhispered to one another in what they took to be secrecy; othersexchanged chaff and gin. It was their employers who paid for all thishospitality, but the conventions were decently observed--'My round, oldboy.' 'No, no, my round'... 'Have this one on me.' 'Well the next ismine'--except by Shumble who, from habit, drank heartily and withoutreturn wherever it was offered.

'What are you all here for?' asked Corker petulantly of a newcomer.'What's come over them at home? What's supposed to be going on, anyway?'

'It's ideological. And we're only half of it. There's twenty more at thecoast who couldn't get on the train. Weren't they sick at seeing us go?It's lousy on the coast.'

'It's lousy here.'

'Yes, I see what you mean...'

There was not much sleep that night for anyone in William's room. Thephotographer who was dossing down found the floor wet and draughty and,as the hours passed, increasingly hard. He turned from side to side, layflat on his back, then on his face. At each change of position hegroaned as though in agony. Every now and then he turned on the light tocollect more coverings. At dawn, when the rain began to drip near hishead, he was dozing uneasily, fully dressed in overcoat and tweed-cap,enveloped in every available textile including the tablecloth, thecurtains and Corker's two oriental shawls. Nor did the otherphotographer do much better; the camp bed seemed less stable thanWilliam had supposed when it was sold to him; perhaps it was wronglyassembled; perhaps essential parts were still missing. Whatever thereason, it collapsed repeatedly and roused William's apprehensions ofthe efficacy of his canoe.

Early next morning he rang up Bannister and, on his advice, moved toFrau Dressler's pension. 'Bad policy, brother,' said Corker, 'but sinceyou're going I wonder if you'll take charge of my curios. I don't at alllike the way Shumble's been looking at them.'

****

The Pension Dressler stood in a side street and had, at first glance,the air rather of a farm than of an hotel. Frau Dressler's pig, tetheredby the hind trotter to the jamb of the front door, roamed the yard anddisputed the kitchen scraps with the poultry. He was a prodigious beast.Frau Dressler's guests prodded him appreciatively on their way to thedining-room, speculating on how soon he would be ripe for killing. Themilch-goat was allowed a narrower radius; those who kept strictly to thecauseway were safe, but she never reconciled herself to this limitationand, day in, day out, essayed a series of meteoric onslaughts on thepassers-by, ending, at the end of her rope, with a jerk which would havebeen death to an animal of any other species. One day the rope wouldbreak; she knew it and so did Frau Dressler's guests.

There was also a gander, the possession of the night watchman, and athree-legged dog, who barked furiously from the mouth of a barrel andwas said to have belonged to the late Herr Dressler. Other pets came andwent with Frau Dressler's guests--baboons, gorillas, cheetahs--allinhabited the yard in varying degrees of liberty and moved uneasily forfear of the milch-goat.

As a consequence perhaps of the vigour of the livestock, the garden hadnot prospered. A little bed, edged with inverted bottles, producednothing except, annually, a crop of the rank, scarlet flowers whichburst out everywhere in Jacksonburg at the end of the rains. Two sterilebanana palms grew near the kitchens and between them a bush of Indianhemp which the cook tended and kept for his own indulgence. The nightwatchman, too, had a little shrub, to whose seed-pods he attributedintoxicant properties.

Architecturally, the Pension Dressler was a mess. There were three mainbuildings disposed irregularly in the acre of ground--single storied,tin roofed, constructed of timber and rubble, with wooden verandahs; thetwo larger were divided into bedrooms; the smallest contained thedining-room, the parlour and the mysterious, padlocked room where FrauDressler slept. Everything of value or interest in the pension was keptin this room and whatever was needed by anyone--money, provisions,linen, back numbers of European magazines--could be produced, on demand,from under Frau Dressler's bed. There was a hut called the bathroom,where, after due notice and the recruitment of extra labour, a tin tubcould be filled with warm water and enjoyed in the half-darkness among acolony of bats. There was the kitchen not far from the other buildings,a place of smoke and wrath, loud with Frau Dressler's scolding. Andthere were the servants' quarters--a cluster of thatched cabins,circular, windowless, emitting at all hours a cosy smell of woodsmokeand curry; the centre of a voluble round of hospitality which culminatedoften enough in the late evening with song and rhythmical clapping. Thenight watchman had his own lair where he lived morosely with twowrinkled wives. He was a tough old warrior who passed his brief wakinghours in paring the soles of his feet with his dagger or buttering thebolt of his ancient rifle.

Frau Dressler's guests varied from three to a dozen in number. They wereEuropeans, mostly of modest means and good character. Frau Dressler hadlived all her life in Africa and had a sharp nose for the unfortunate.She had drifted here from Tanganyika after the war, shedding HerrDressler, none knew exactly where or how, on her way. There were anumber of Germans in Jacksonburg employed in a humble way in thecosmopolitan commercial quarter. Frau Dressler was their centre. Sheallowed them to come in on Saturday evenings after the guests had dined,to play cards or chess and listen to the wireless. They drank a bottleof beer apiece; sometimes they only had coffee, but there was no placefor the man who tried to get away without spending. At Christmas therewas a decorated tree and a party which the German Minister attended andsubsidized. The missionaries always recommended Frau Dressler tovisitors in search of cheap and respectable lodgings.

She was a large shabby woman of unbounded energy. When Williamconfronted her she was scolding a group of native peasants from thedining-room steps. The meaning of her words was hidden from William;from the peasants also, for she spoke Ishmaelite, and bad Ishmaelite atthat, while they knew only a tribal patois; but the tone wasunmistakable. The peasants did not mind. This was a daily occurrence.Always at dawn they appeared outside Frau Dressler's dining-room andexposed their wares--red peppers, green vegetables, eggs, poultry, andfresh local cheese. Every hour or so Frau Dressler asked them theirprices and told them to be off. Always at half-past eleven, when it wastime for her to begin cooking the mid-day dinner, she made her purchasesat the price which all parties had long ago decided would be the justone.

'They are thieves and impostors,' she said to William. 'I have beenfifteen years in Jacksonburg and they still think they can cheat. When Ifirst came I paid the most wicked prices--two American dollars for alamb; ten cents a dozen for eggs. Now I know better.'

William said that he wanted a room. She received him cordially and ledhim across the yard. The three-legged dog barked furiously from hisbarrel; the milch-goat shot out at him like a cork from a popgun, and,like it, was brought up short at the end of her string; the nightwatchman's gander hissed and ruffled his plumage. Frau Dressler pickedup a loose stone and caught him square in the chest. 'They are playful,'she explained, 'particularly the goat.'

They gained the verandah, sheltered from rain and livestock. FrauDressler threw open a door. There was luggage in the bedroom, a pair ofwoman's stockings across the foot of the bed, a woman's shoes againstthe wall. 'We have a girl here at the moment. She shall move.'

'Oh but please... I don't want to turn anyone out.'

'She shall move,' repeated Frau Dressler. 'It's my best room. There iseverything you want here.'

William surveyed the meagre furniture; the meagre, but still painfullysuperfluous ornaments. 'Yes', he said. 'Yes, I suppose there is.'

****

A train of porters carried William's luggage from the Hotel Liberty.When it was all assembled, it seemed to fill the room. The men stood onthe verandah waiting to be paid. William's own boy had absented himselfon the first signs of packing. Frau Dressler drove them off with a fewcopper coins and a torrent of abuse. 'You had better give me anything ofvalue,' she said to William, 'the natives are all villains.'

He gave her Corker's objects of art; she carried them off to her roomand stored them safely under the bed. William began to unpack. Presentlythere was a knock outside. The door opened. William had his back to it.He was kneeling over his ant-proof chest.

'Please,' said a woman's voice. William turned round. 'Please may I havemy things?'

It was the girl he had seen the day before at the Swedish mission. Shewore the same mackintosh, the same splashed gumboots. She seemed to bejust as wet. William jumped to his feet.

'Yes, of course, please let me help.'

'Thank you. There's not very much. But this one is heavy. It has some ofmy husband's things.'

She took her stockings from the end of the bed. Ran her hand into oneand showed him two large holes, smiled, rolled them into a ball and putthem in the pocket of her raincoat. 'This is the heavy one,' she said,pointing to a worn leather bag. William attempted to lift it. It mighthave been full of stone. The girl opened it. It was full of stone.'They are my husband's specimens,' she said. 'He wants me to be verycareful of them. They are very important. But I don't think anyone couldsteal them. They are so heavy.'

William succeeded in dragging the bag across the floor. 'Where to?'

'I have a little room by the kitchen. It is up a ladder. It will bedifficult to carry the specimens. I wanted Frau Dressler to keep them inher room but she did not want to. She said they were of no value. Yousee, she is not an engineer.'

'Would you like to leave them here?'

Her face brightened. 'May I? It would be very kind. That is what Ihoped, but I did not know what you would be like. They said you were ajournalist.'

'So I am.'

'The town is full of journalists but I should not have thought you wereone.'

'I can't think why Frau Dressler has put me in this room,' said William.'I should be perfectly happy anywhere else. Did you want to move?'

'I must move. You see this is Frau Dressler's best room. When I camehere it was with my husband. Then she gave us the best room. But now heis at work so I must move. I do not want a big room now I am alone. Butit would be very kind if you would keep our specimens.'

There was a suitcase which belonged to her. She opened it and threw inthe shoes and other woman's things that lay about the room. When it wasfull she looked from it to the immense pile of trunks and crates, andsmiled. 'It is all I have,' she said. 'Not like you.'

She went over to the pile of cleft sticks. 'How do you use these?'

'They are for sending messages.'

'You're teasing me.'

'No, indeed I'm not. Lord Copper said I was to send my messages withthem.'

The girl laughed. 'How funny. Have all the journalists got sticks likethis?'

'Well, no; to tell you the truth I don't believe they have.'

'How funny you are.' Her laugh became a cough. She sat on the bed andcoughed until her eyes were full of tears. 'Oh, dear. It is so longsince I laughed and now it hurts me... What is in this?'

'A canoe.'

'Now I know you are teasing me.'

'Honestly it's a canoe. At least they said it was at the shop. Look,I'll show you.'

Together they prised up the lid of the case and filled the floor withshavings and wads of paper. At last they found a neat roll of cane andproofed canvas.

'It is a tent,' she said.

'No a canoe. Look.'

They spread the canvas on the floor. With great difficulty theyassembled the framework of jointed cane. Twice they had to stop when thegirl's laughter turned to a paroxysm of coughing. At last it wasfinished and the little boat rose in a sea of shavings. 'It is acanoe,' she cried. 'Now I will believe you about those sticks. I willbelieve everything you tell me. Look, these are seats. Get in, quick, wemust get in.'

They sat opposite one another in the boat, their knees touching.

The girl laughed, clear and loud, and this time did not cough. 'But it'sbeautiful,' she said. 'And so new. I have not seen anything so newsince I came to this city. Can you swim?'

'Yes.'

'So can I. I swim very well. So it will not matter if we are upset.Give me one of the message sticks and I will row you...'

'Do I intrude?' asked Corker. He was standing on the verandah outsidethe window, leaning into the room.

'Oh dear,' said the girl.

She and William left the boat and stood among the shavings.

'We were just trying the canoe,' William explained.

'Yes,' said Corker. 'Whimsical. How about trying the mistletoe?'

'This is Mr Corker, a fellow journalist.'

'Yes, yes. I see he is. I must go away now.'

'Not Garbo,' said Corker. 'Bergner.'

'What does he mean?'

'He says you are like a film star.'

'Does he? Does he really say that.' Her face, clouded at Corker'sinterruption, beamed. 'That is how I should like to be. Now I must go. Iwill send a boy for the valise.'

She went, pulling the collar of her raincoat close round her throat.

'Not bad, brother, not bad at all. I will say you're a quick worker.Sorry to barge in on the tender scene, but there's trouble afoot.Hitchcock's story has broken. He's at the fascist headquarters scoopingthe world.'

'Where?'

'Town called Laku.'

'But he can't be. Bannister told me there was no such place.'

'Well there is now, old boy. At this very moment it's bang across thefront page of the Daily Brute and it's where we are all going or knowthe reason why. A meeting of the Foreign Press Association has beencalled for six this evening at the Liberty. Feeling is running very highin the bunch.'

****

The German girl came back.

'Is the journalist gone?'

'Yes. I am sorry. I'm afraid he was rather rude.'

'Was he teasing, or did he really mean I was like a film star?'

'I'm sure he meant it.'

'Do you think so too?' She leaned on the dressing-table studying herface in the mirror. She pushed back a strand of hair that had fallenover her forehead; she turned her head on one side, smiled at herself,put out her tongue. 'Do you think so?'

'Yes, very like a film star.'

'I am glad.' She sat on the bed. 'What's your name?'

William told her.

'Mine is Kätchen,' she said. 'You must put away the boat. It is in theway and it makes us seem foolish.'

Together they dismembered the frame and rolled up the canvas. 'I havesomething to ask,' she said. 'What do you think is the value of myhusband's specimens?'

'I'm afraid I have no idea.'

'He said they were very valuable.'

'I expect they are.'

'Ten English pounds?'

'I daresay.'

'More? Twenty?'

'Possibly.'

'Then I will sell them to you. It is because I like you. Will you giveme twenty pounds for them?'

'Well, you know, I've got a great deal of luggage already. I don't knowquite what I should do with them.'

'I know what you are thinking--that it is wrong for me to sell myhusband's valuable specimens. But he has been away for six weeks now andhe left me with only eight dollars. Frau Dressler is becoming mostimpolite. I am sure he would not want Frau Dressler to be impolite. Sothis is what we will do. You shall buy them and then, when my husbandcomes back and says they are worth more than twenty pounds, you will payhim the difference. There will be nothing wrong in that, will there? Hecould not be angry?'

'No, I don't think he could possibly be angry about that.'

'Good. Oh, you have made me glad that you came here. Please, will yougive me the money now? Have you an account at the bank?'

'Yes.'

'Then write a cheque. I will take it to the bank myself. Then it will beno trouble to you.'

When she had gone, William took out his expense sheet and dutifullyentered the single, enigmatic item: 'Stones... £20.'

****

Every journalist in Jacksonburg, except Wenlock Jakes, who had sentPaleologue to represent him, attended the meeting of the Foreign PressAssociation; all, in their various tongues, voluble with indignation.The hotel boys pattered amongst them with trays of whisky; the air waspungent and dark with tobacco smoke. Pappenhacker was in the chair,wearily calling for order. 'Order, gentlemen, Attention, je vous enprie. Order, please. Messieurs, gentlemen...'

'Order, order,' shouted Pigge, and Pappenhacker's voice was drowned incries for silence.

'...secretary to read the minutes of the last meeting.'

The voice of the secretary could occasionally be heard above thechatter. '...held at the Hotel Liberty... Sir Jocelyn Hitchcock inthe chair... resolution... unanimously passed... protest in themost emphatic manner against... Ishmaelite government... militatesagainst professional activities...

'...objections to make or questions to ask about these minutes...'

The correspondents for Paris-soir and Havas objected and after atime the minutes were signed. Pappenhacker was again on his feet.'Gentlemen, in the absence of Sir Jocelyn Hitchcock...'

Loud laughter and cries of 'Shame'.

'Mr Chairman, I must protest that this whole question is being treatedwith highly undesirable levity.'

'Translate.'

'On traite toute la question avec une légèrité indésirable.'

'Thank you, Mr Porter...'

'If you pliss to spik Sherman...'

'Italiano... piacere...'

'...tutta domanda con levita spiacevole...'

'...Sherman...'

'Gentlemen, gentlemen, Doctor Benito has consented to meet us here in afew minutes and it is essential that I know the will of the meeting sothat I can present our demands in proper form.'

At this stage one half of the audience--those nearest to William--weredistracted from the proceedings by an altercation, unconnected with thebusiness in hand, between two rival photographers.

'Did you call me a scab?'

'I did not, but I will.'

'You will?'

'Sure, you're a scab. Now what?'

'Call me a scab outside.'

'I call you a scab here.'

'Say that outside and see what you'll get.'

Cries of 'Shame' and 'Aw, pipe down.'

****

'...gravely affecting our professional status. We welcome fair andfree competition... obliged to enforce coercive measures...'

'Go on, sock me one and see what you get.'

'I don't want to sock you one. You sock me first.'

'Aw, go sock him one.'

'Just you give me a poke in the nose and see what you'll get.'

****

'...Notre condition professionnelle. Nous souhaitons la bienvenue àtoute la competition égal et libre.'

****

'...Nostra condizione professionale...'

****

'You poke me in the nose.'

'Aw, why can't you boys sock each other and be friendly?'

'Resolution before the meeting... protest against the breach of faithon the part of the Ishmaelite government and demand that allrestrictions on their movements be instantly relaxed. I call for a showof hands on this resolution.'

'Mr Chairman, I object to the whole tone of this resolution.'

'May I propose the amendment that facilities be withheld from SirJocelyn Hitchcock until we have had time to get level with him.'

'...demand an enquiry into how and from whom he received his permissionto travel and the punishment of the responsible official...'

'I protest Mr Chairman, that the whole tone is peremptory anddiscourteous.'

'...The motion as amended reads...'

Then Doctor Benito arrived; he came from the main entrance and thejournalists fell back to make way. It was William's first sight of him.He was short and brisk and self-possessed; soot black in face, withpiercing boot-button eyes; he wore a neat black suit; his linen and histeeth were brilliantly white; he carried a little black attaché case; inthe lapel of his coat he wore the button of the Star of Ishmaelia,fourth class. As he passed through them the journalists were hushed; itwas as though the head-mistress had suddenly appeared among an unrulyclass of schoolgirls. He reached the table, shook Pappenhacker by thehand and faced his audience with a flash of white teeth.

'Gentlemen,' he said, 'I will speak first in English' the correspondentsof Havas and Paris-soir began to protest, 'after that in French.'

'I have a communication to make on the part of the President. He wishesto state first that he reserves for himself absolutely the right tomaintain or relax the regulations he has made for the comfort and safetyof the Press, either generally or in individual cases. Secondly, that,so far, no relaxation of these regulations has been made in any case.If, as is apparently believed, a journalist has left Jacksonburg for theinterior it is without the Government's consent or knowledge. Thirdly,that the roads to the interior are at the moment entirely unfit fortravel, provisions are impossible to obtain and travellers would be indanger from disaffected elements of the population. Fourthly, that hehas decided, in view of the wishes of the foreign Press, to relax therestrictions he has hitherto made. Those wishing to do so, may travel tothe interior. They must first apply formally to my bureau where thenecessary passes will be issued and steps taken for their protection.That is all, gentlemen.'

He then repeated his message in accurate French, bowed and left themeeting in deep silence. When he had gone Pappenhacker said, 'Wellgentlemen, I think that concludes our evening's business in a verysatisfactory manner,' but it was with a dissatisfied air that thejournalists left the hotel for the wireless station.

'A triumph for the power of the Press,' said Corker. 'They caved in atonce.'

'Yes,' said William.

'You sound a bit doubtful, brother.'

'Yes.'

'I know what you're thinking of--something in Benito's manner. I noticedit too. Nothing you could actually take hold of, but he seemed kind ofsuperior to me.'

'Yes,' said William.

They sent off their service messages. William wrote: THEY HAVE GIVEN USPERMISSION TO GO TO LAKU AND EVERYONE IS GOING BUT THERE IS NO SUCHPLACE AM I TO GO TOO SORRY TO BE A BORE BOOT.

Corker more succinctly: PERMISSION GRANTED LAKUWARD.

That night the wireless carried an urgent message in similar terms fromevery journalist in Jacksonburg.

William and Corker returned to the Liberty for a drink. All thejournalists were having drinks. The two photographers were clinkingglasses and slapping one another on the shoulder. Corker reverted to thetopic that was vexing him. 'What's that blackamoor got to be superiorabout?' he asked moodily. 'Funny that you noticed it too.'

****

Next day Corker brought William a cable: UNPROCEED LAKUWARD STOPAGENCIES COVERING PATRIOTIC FRONT STOP REMAIN CONTACTING CUMREDS STOPNEWS EXYOU UNRECEIVED STOP DAILY HARD NEWS ESSENTIALLEST STOP REMEMBERRATES SERVICE CABLES ONE ETSIX PER WORD BEAST.

Kätchen stood at his elbow as he read it. 'What does it mean?' sheasked.

'I'm to stay in Jacksonburg.'

'Oh, I am pleased.'

William answered the cable:

NO NEWS AT PRESENT THANKS WARNING ABOUT CABLING PRICES BUT IVE PLENTYMONEY LEFT AND ANYWAY WHEN I OFFERED TO PAY WIRELESS MAN SAID IT WAS ALLRIGHT PAID OTHER END RAINING HARD HOPE ALL WELL ENGLAND WILL CABLE AGAINIF ANY NEWS.

Then he and Kätchen went to play ping-pong at Popotakis's.

****

The journalists left.

For three days the town was in turmoil. Lorries were chartered andprovisioned; guides engaged; cooks and guards and muleteers andcaravan-boys and hunters, cooks' boys, guards' boys, muleteers' boys,caravan-boys' boys and hunters' boys were recruited at unprecedentedrates of pay; all over the city, in the offices and legations, residentEuropeans found themselves deserted by their servants; seminarists leftthe missions, male-nurses the hospital, highly placed clerks theirgovernment departments, to compete for the journalists' wages. The priceof benzine was doubled overnight and rose steadily until the day of theexodus. Terrific deals were done in the bazaar in tinned foodstuffs;they were cornered by a Parsee and unloaded on a Banja, cornered againby an Arab, resold and rebought, before they reached the journalists'stores. Shumble bought William's rifle and sold a half share in it toWhelper. Everyone now emulated the costume of the Frenchmen; sombreros,dungarees, jodhpurs, sunproof shirts and bulletproof waistcoats,holsters, bandoliers, Newmarket boots, cutlasses, filled the Liberty.The men of the Excelsior Movie-Sound News sporting the horsehair capesand silk skirts of native chieftains, made camp in the Liberty gardenand photographed themselves at great length in attitudes of vigilanceand repose. Paleologue made his pile.

There was an evening of wild indignation when it was falsely put aroundthat Jakes had been lent a balloon by the Government for his journey.There was an evening of anxiety when, immediately before the day fixedfor their departure, the journalists were informed that the passes fortheir journey had not yet received the stamp of the Ministry of theInterior. A meeting of the Press Association was hastily called; itpassed a resolution of protest and dissolved in disorder. Late thatevening Doctor Benito delivered the passes in person. They werehandsome, unintelligible documents printed in Ishmaelite and liberallydecorated with rubber stamps, initials, and patriotic emblems. Benitobrought one to William at the Pension Dressler.

'I'm not going after all,' William explained.

'Not going, Mr Boot? But your pass is here, made out in order.'

'Sorry if it has caused extra work, but my editor has told me to stay onhere.'

An expression of extreme annoyance came over the affable, black face.

'But your colleagues have made every arrangement. It is very difficultfor my bureau if the journalists do not keep together. You see your passto Laku automatically cancels your permission to remain in Jacksonburg.I'm afraid, Mr Boot, it will be necessary for you to go.'

'Oh, rot,' said William. 'For one thing there is no such place as Laku.'

'I see you are very well informed about my country, Mr Boot. I shouldnot have thought it from the tone of your newspaper.'

William began to dislike Doctor Benito.

'Well, I'm not going. Will you be good enough to cancel the pass andrenew my permission for Jacksonburg?'

There was a pause; then the white teeth flashed in a smile.

'But, of course, Mr Boot. It will be a great pleasure, I cannot hope tooffer you anything of much interest during your visit. As you have seenwe are a very quiet little community. The Academic year opens at JacksonCollege. General Gollancz Jackson is celebrating his silver wedding. ButI do not think any of these things are of great importance in Europe. Iam sure your colleagues in the interior will find far more excitingmatter for their despatches. Are you sure nothing can make you alteryour decision?'

'Quite sure.'

'Very well.' Doctor Benito turned to go. Then he paused. 'By the way,have you communicated to any of your colleagues your uncertainty aboutthe existence of the city of Laku?'

'Yes, but they wouldn't listen.'

'I suppose not. Perhaps they have more experience in their business.Good-night.'

****

Next morning, at dawn, the first lorry started. It was shared by Corkerand Pigge. They sat in front with the driver. They had been drinkingheavily and late the night before and, in the grey light, showed it.Behind among the crates and camp furniture lay six torpid servants.

William rose to see them off. They had kept the time of their departurea secret. Everyone, the evening before, had spoken casually of 'making amove at tennish,' but when William arrived at the Liberty the wholeplace was astir. Others beside Pigge and Corker conceived that anadvantage might come from a few hours start; all the others. Corker andPigge were away first, by a negligible margin. One after another theircolleagues took the road behind them. Pappenhacker drove a little twoseater he had bought from the British Legation. Many of the cars flewflags of Ishmaelia and of their own countries. One lorry was twice thesize of any other; it rode gallantly on six wheels; its sides werearmour-plated; it had been purchased, irregularly and at enormousexpense, from the War Office and bore in vast letters of still tackypaint the inscription: EXCELSIOR MOVIE-SOUND EXPEDITIONARY UNIT TO THEISHMAELITE IDEOLOGICAL FRONT.

During these latter days the rains had notably declined, giving promiseof spring. The clouds lay high over the town; revealing a wider horizonand, as the cavalcade disappeared from view, the road to Laku laymomentarily bathed in sunshine. William waved them goodbye from thesteps of the Jackson memorial and turned back towards the PensionDressler, but as he went the sky darkened and the first drops began tofall.

He was at breakfast when his boy reported. 'All come back.'

'Who?'

'All newspaper fellows come back. Soldiers catch 'em one time and take'em plison.'

William went out to investigate.

Sure enough the lorries were lined up outside the police station andinside, each with an armed guard, sat the journalists. They had foundthe barricades of the town shut against them; the officer in charge hadnot been warned to expect them; he had been unable to read their passesand they were all under arrest.

At ten, when Doctor Benito began his day's routine at the Press Bureau,he received them apologetically but blandly. 'It is a mistake,' he said.'I regret it infinitely. I understood that you proposed to start at ten.If I had known that you intended to start earlier I would have made thenecessary arrangements. The night-guard have orders to let no onethrough. You will now find the day-guard on duty. They will present armsas you pass. I have given special instructions to that effect. Goodbyegentlemen and a good journey.'

Once more the train of lorries set off; rain was now falling hard.Corker and Pigge still led; Wenlock Jakes came last in a smart touringcar. William waved; the populace whistled appreciatively; at the gatesof the city the guard slapped the butts of their carbines. William oncemore turned to the Pension Dressler; the dark clouds opened above him;the gutters and wet leaves sparkled in sunlight and a vast, iridescentfan of colour, arc beyond arc of splendour, spread across the heavens.The journalists had gone, and a great peace reigned in the city.

Chapter Three

Kätchen was smoking in a long chair on the verandah. 'Lovely,' she said.'Lovely. In a few days now the rains will be over.'

She had been early to the hairdresser and, in place of the dank wisps ofyesterday, her golden head was a tuft of curls. She had a new dress; shewore scarlet sandals and her toenails were painted to match them. 'Thedress came yesterday,' she said. 'There is an Austrian lady who sewed itfor me. I wanted to put it on last night, when we went to playping-pong, but I thought you would like it best when my hair was done.You do like it?'

'Immensely.'

'And I got this,' she said. 'It is French.' She showed him an enamelledvanity case. 'The hairdresser sold it to me... From Paris. Lipstick,powder, looking glass, comb, cigarettes. Pretty?'

'Very pretty.'

'And now Frau Dressler is angry with me again, because of her bill. ButI don't care. What business of hers is it if I sell my husband'sspecimens? I offered them to her and she said they were not valuable. Idon't care, I don't care. Oh, William, I am so happy. Look at therainbow. It gets bigger and bigger. Soon there will be no room in thesky for it. Do you know what I should like to do today? I should like usto take a motor-car and drive into the hills. We could get some wineand, if you ask her, Frau Dressler will make a hamper. Do not say it isfor me. Let us get away from this city for a day...'

****

Frau Dressler packed a hamper; Doctor Benito stamped a pass; Paleologuearranged for the hire of a motor-car. At mid-day William and Kätchendrove off towards the hills.

'Kätchen, I love you. Darling darling Kätchen, I love you...'

He meant it. He was in love. It was the first time in twenty-threeyears; he was suffused and inflated and tipsy with love. It was believedat Boot Magna, and jocularly commented upon from time to time, that anattachment existed between him and a neighbouring Miss Caldicote; it wasnot so. He was a stranger alike to the bucolic jaunts of the hay fieldand the dark and costly expeditions of his Uncle Theodore. Fortwenty-three years he had remained celibate and heart-whole; landbound.Now for the first time he was far from shore, submerged among deepwaters, below wind and tide, where huge trees raised their spongyflowers and monstrous things without fur or feather, wing or foot,passed silently, in submarine twilight. A lush place.

****

Sir Jocelyn Hitchcock threw open the shutters of his room and welcomedthe sunshine. He thrust his head out of the window and called loudly forattention. They brought him a dozen steaming jugs and filled his tub. Hebathed and shaved and rubbed his head with eau de quinine until hissparse hairs were crowned with foam and his scalp smarted and glowed. Hedressed carefully, set his hat at an angle and sauntered to the wirelessstation.

CONSIDER ISHMAELITE STORY UP-CLEANED he wrote SUGGEST LEAVING AGENCIESCOVER UPFOLLOWS. Then he returned to the hotel and ate a late breakfastof five lightly boiled eggs.

He packed his luggage and waited for his reply. It came before sundownfor there was little traffic at the wireless station that day. PROCEEDLUCERNE COVER ECONOMIC NONINTERVENTION CONGRESS. There was a train tothe coast that night. He paid his bill at the hotel and, with threehours to spare, took a walk in the town.

The promise of the morning had been barely fulfilled. At noon the rainhad started again; throughout the afternoon had streamed monotonouslyand now, at sundown, ceased; for a few minutes the shoddy roofs wereablaze with scarlet and gold.

With loping steps, Erik Olafsen came down the street towards SirJocelyn; his face was uplifted to the glory of the sunset and he wouldhave walked blandly by. It was Sir Jocelyn's first impulse to let him;then, changing his mind, he stepped forward and greeted him.

'Sir Hitchcock, you are back so soon. It will disappoint our colleaguesto find you not at Laku. You have had many interests in your journey,yes?'

'Yes,' said Sir Jocelyn briefly.

Across the street, deriding the splendour of the sky, there flashed theelectric sign of Popotakis's Ping-Pong Parlour, while, from his door, anancient French two-step, prodigiously amplified, heralded the day's end.

'Come across and have a drink,' said Sir Jocelyn.

'Not to drink, thank you so much, but to hear the interests of yourjourney. I was told that Laku was no such place, no?'

'No,' said Sir Jocelyn.

Even as they crossed the street, the sky paled.

Popotakis had tried a cinema, a dance hall, baccarat and miniature golf;now he had four ping-pong tables. He had made good money for the smartset of Jacksonburg were always hard put to get through the rainy season;the polyglot professional class had made it their rendezvous; evenattachés from the legations and younger members of the Jackson familyhad come there. Then for a few delirious days it had been over-run withjournalists; prices had doubled, quarrels had raged, the correspondentof the Methodist Monitor had been trussed with a net and aphotographer had lost a tooth. Popotakis's old clients melted away toother, more seemly resorts; the journalists had broken his furniture andinsulted his servants and kept him awake till four in the morning butthey had drunk his home-made whisky at an American dollar a glass andpoured his home-made champagne over the bar at ten dollars a bottle. Nowthey had all gone and the place was nearly empty. Only William andKätchen sat at the bar. Popotakis had some genuine sixty per cent.absinthe; that is what they were drinking. They were in a sombre mood,for the picnic had been a failure.

Olafsen greeted them with the keenest pleasure. 'So you have not gonewith the others, Boot? And you are now friends with Kätchen? Good, good.Sir Hitchcock, to present my distinguished colleague Boot of the LondonBeast.'

Sir Jocelyn was always cordial to fellow journalists, however obscure.'Drink up,' he said. 'And have another. Sending much?'

'Nothing,' said William, 'nothing seems to happen.'

'Why aren't you with the bunch? You're missing a grand trip. Mind you Idon't know they'll get much of a story at Laku. Shouldn't be surprisedif they found the place empty already. But it's a grand trip. Scenery,you know, and wild life. What are you drinking, Eriksen?'

'Olafsen. Thank you, some grenadine. That absinthe is very dangerous. Itwas so I killed my grandfather.'

'You killed your grandfather, Erik?'

'Yes, did you not know? I thought it was well known. I was very young atthe time and had taken a lot of sixty per cent. It was with a chopper.'

'May we know, sir,' asked Sir Jocelyn sceptically, 'how old you werewhen this thing happened?'

'Just seventeen. It was my birthday; that is why I had so much drink. SoI came to live in Jacksonburg and now I drink this.' He raised, withoutrelish, his glass of crimson syrup.

'Poor man,' said Kätchen.

'Which is poor man? Me or the grandfather?'

'I meant you.'

'Yes I am poor man. When I was very young I used often to be drunk. Nowit is very seldom. Once or two time in the year. But always I dosomething I am very sorry for. I think perhaps I shall get drunktonight,' he suggested, brightening.

'No, Erik, not tonight.'

'No? Very well not tonight. But it will be soon. It is very long since Iwas drunk.'

The confession shed a momentary gloom. All four sat in silence. SirJocelyn stirred himself and ordered some more absinthe.

'There were parrots, too,' he said with an effort. 'All along the roadto Laku. I never saw such parrots--green and red and blue and--everycolour you can think of, talking like mad. And gorillas.'

'Sir Hitchcock,' said the Swede. 'I have lived in this country eversince I killed my grandfather and I never saw or heard of a gorilla.'

'I saw six,' said Sir Jocelyn stoutly, 'sitting in a row.'

The Swede rose abruptly from his stool. 'I do not understand,' he said.'So I think I shall go.' He paid for his grenadine and left them at thebar.

'Odd chap that,' said Sir Jocelyn. 'Moody. Men get like that when theylive in the tropics. I daresay it was all a delusion about hisgrandfather.'

There was food of a kind procurable at Popotakis's Ping Pong Parlour.'Will you dine with me here,' asked Sir Jocelyn, 'as it's my lastevening?'

'Your last evening?'

'Yes, I've been called away. Public interest in Ishmaelia is beginningto wane.'

'But nothing has happened yet.'

'Exactly. There was only one story for a special--my interview with thefascist leader. Of course it's different with the Americans--fellowslike Jakes. They have a different sense of news from us--personal stuff,you know. The job of an English special is to spot the story he wants,get it--then clear out and leave the rest to the agencies. The war willbe ordinary routine reporting. Fleet Street have spent a lot on thisalready. They'll have to find something to justify it and then they'lldraw in their horns. You take it from me. As soon as they get anythingthat smells like front page, they'll start calling back their men.Personally I'm glad to have got my work over quick. I never did like theplace.'

They dined at Popotakis's and went to the station to see Hitchcock off.He had secured the single sleeping car which was reserved for officialvisitors and left in great good humour. 'Goodbye, Boot, remember me tothem at the Beast. I wonder how they are feeling now about havingmissed that Laku story.'

The train left and William found himself the only special correspondentin Jacksonburg.

****

He and Kätchen drove back. Kätchen said: 'Frau Dressler was very angryagain this afternoon.'

'Beast.'

'William you do like me.'

'I love you. I've told you so all day.'

'No you must not say that. My husband would not allow it. I mean, as afriend.'

'No, not as a friend.'

'Oh dear you make me so sad.'

'You're crying.'

'No.'

'You are.'

'Yes. I am so sad you are not my friend. Now I cannot ask you what Iwanted.'

'What?'

'No I cannot ask you. You do not love me as a friend. I was so lonelyand when you came I thought everything was going to be happy. But now itis spoiled. It is so easy for you to think here is a foreign girl andher husband is away. No one will mind what happens to her... No, youare not to touch me. I hate you.'

William sat back silently in his corner.

'William.'

'Yes.'

'He is not going to the Pension Dressler. It is to the Swede again.'

'I don't care.'

'But I am so tired.'

'So am I.'

'Tell him to go to the Pension Dressler.'

'I told him. It's no good.'

'Very well. If you wish to be a beast...'

The Swede was still up, mending with patient, clumsy hands the tornbacks of his hymn books. He put down the paste and scissors and came outto direct the taxi driver.

'It was not true what Sir Hitchcock said. There are no gorillas in thiscountry. He cannot have seen six. Why does he say that?' His broadforehead was lined and his eyes wide with distress and bewilderment.'Why did he say that, Boot?'

'Perhaps he was joking.'

'Joking? I never thought of that. Of course, it was a joke. Ha, ha, ha.I am so glad. Now I understand. A joke.' He returned to his lightedstudy, laughing with relief and amusement. As he settled himself to workonce more, he hummed a tune. One by one the tattered books were set inorder, restored and fortified, and the Swede chuckled over Sir Jocelyn'sjoke.

William and Kätchen drove home in complete silence. The night watchmanflung open the gates and raised his spear in salute. While William waswrangling with the taxi driver, Kätchen slipped away to her own room.William undressed and lay among his heaps of luggage. His anger softenedand turned to shame, then to a light melancholy; soon he fell asleep.

****

There was one large table in the Pension dining-room. Kätchen wassitting at its head, alone; she had pushed the plate away and put hercoffee in its place between her bare elbows; she crouched over it,holding the cup in both hands; the saucer was full and drops of coffeeformed on the bottom of the cup and splashed like tears. She did notanswer when William wished her good morning. He went to the door andcalled across to the kitchen for his breakfast. It was five minutes incoming but still she did not speak or leave the table. Frau Dresslerbustled through, on the way to her room and returned laden with foldedsheets. She spoke to Kätchen gruffly in German. Kätchen nodded. The cupdripped on the tablecloth. She put her hand down to hide the spot butFrau Dressler saw it and spoke again. Kätchen began to cry; she did notraise her head and the tears fell, some in the cup, some in the saucer,some on the tablecloth.

William said, 'Kätchen... Kätchen darling, what's the matter?'

'I have no handkerchief.'

He gave her his. 'What did Frau Dressler say?'

'She was angry because I have made the tablecloth dirty. She said whydid I not help with the washing.' She dabbed her face and the tableclothwith William's handkerchief.

'I am afraid I was very disagreeable last night.'

'Yes, why were you like that? It had been so nice until then. Perhaps itwas the Pernod. Why were you like that, William?'

'Because I love you.'

'I have told you you are not to say that... My husband has been awayfor six weeks. When he left he said he would return in a month or at themost six weeks. It is six weeks this morning. I am very worried what mayhave become of him... I have been with him for two years now.'

'Kätchen there's something I must ask you. Don't be angry. It's veryimportant to me. Is he really your husband?'

'But of course he is. It is just that he has gone away for his work.'

'I mean, were you married to him properly in church?'

'No, not in church.'

'At a government office then?'

'No. You see it was not possible because of his other wife in Germany.'

'He has another wife then?'

'Yes, in Germany, but he hates her. I am his real wife.'

'Does Frau Dressler know about the other wife?'

'Yes, that is why she treats me so impolitely. The German consul toldher after my husband had gone away. There was a question of my papers.They would not register me at the German consulate.'

'But you are German?'

'My husband is German so I am German, but there is a difficulty with mypapers. My father is Russian and I was born in Buda-Pest.'

'Is your mother German?'

'Polish.'

'Where is your father now?'

'I think he went to South America to look for my mother after she wentaway. But why do you ask me so many questions when I am unhappy? You areworse than Frau Dressler. It is not your tablecloth. You do not have topay if it is dirty.'

She left William alone at the breakfast table.

****

Twelve miles out of town Corker and Pigge were also at breakfast.

'I never slept once,' said Corker. 'Not a wink, the whole night. Did youhear the lions?'

'Hyenas,' said Pigge.

'Hyenas laugh. These were lions or wolves. Almost in the tent.' They satbeside their lorry drinking soda-water and eating sardines from a tin.The cook and the cook's boy, the driver and the driver's boy, Corker'sboy and Pigge's boy, were all heavily asleep in the lorry under a pileof blankets and tarpaulin.

'Six black bloody servants and no breakfast,' said Corker bitterly.

'They were up all night making whoopee round the fire. Did you hearthem?'

'Of course I heard them. Singing and clapping. I believe they'd got holdof our whisky. I shouted to them to shut up and they said "Must havefire. Many bad animals."'

'Yes, hyenas.'

'Lions.'

'We've got to get the lorry out of the mud, somehow. I suppose the restof the bunch are half way to Laku by now.'

'I didn't think it of them,' said Corker, bitterly. 'Going past us likethat without a bloody word. Shumble I can understand, but Whelper andthe Excelsior Movie-News bunch... With that great lorry of theirsthey could have towed us out in five minutes. What have they got to becompetitive about?... and those two photographers I gave up half myroom to at the hotel--just taking a couple of shots of us and thendriving off. Two white men, alone, in a savage country... it makesone despair of human nature...'

****

The preceding day had been one of bitter experience.

Within quarter of a mile of the city the metalled strip had come to anend and the road became a mud-track. For four hours the lorry hadcrawled along at walking pace, lurching, sticking and skidding; they hadforged through a swollen stream which washed the undercarriage; they hadbeen thrown from side to side of the cab; the binding of the stores hadbroken and Pigge's typewriter had fallen into the mud behind them to beretrieved, hopelessly injured, by the grinning cook's boy. It had beenan abominable journey.

Presently the track had lost all semblance of unity and split into adozen diverging and converging camel paths, winding at the caprice ofthe beasts who had made them, among thorn and rock and anthills in acolourless, muddy plain. Here, without warning, the back wheels had sunkto their axles and here the lorry had stayed while the caravan it hadled disappeared from view. Tents had been pitched and the fire lighted.The cook, opening some tins at random had made them a stew of apricotsand curry powder and turtle soup and tunny fish, which in the finalanalysis had tasted predominantly of benzine.

In bitter cold they had sat at the tent door, while Pigge tried vainlyto repair his typewriter and Corker, struck with nostalgia, composed aletter to his wife; at eight they had retired to their sleeping bags andlain through the long night while their servants caroused outside.

Corker surveyed the barren landscape and the gathering storm clouds, themud-bound lorry, the heap of crapulous black servants, the pasty andhopeless face of Pigge, the glass of soda-water and the jagged tin offish. 'It makes one despair of human nature,' he said again.

****

It was some days since William had seen Bannister so he drove out thatmorning to the Consulate. There was the usual cluster of disconsolateIndians round the door. Bannister sent them away, locked the office andtook William across the garden to his house for a drink.

'Looking for news?' he asked. 'Well the Minister's got a tea-party onThursday. D'you want to come?'

'Yes.'

'I'll get them to bung you a card. It's the worst day of the year forus. Everyone in the place comes who's got a clean collar. It's thepublic holiday in honour of the end of the rainy season and it alwayspours.'

'D'you think you could ask a German girl at my boarding-house. She'srather lonely.'

'Well, frankly Lady G. isn't very keen on lonely German girls. But I'llsee. Is that why you didn't go off on that wild goose chase to Laku?You're wise. I shouldn't be at all surprised if there weren't somerather sensational happenings here in a day or two.'

'The war?'

'No, there's nothing in that. But things are looking queer in the town.I can't tell you more, but if you want a hint look out for that RussianI told you about and watch your friend Doctor Benito. What's the girl'sname?'

'Well I'm not sure about her surname. There's some difficulty about herpapers.'

'Doesn't sound at all Lady G's cup of tea. Is she pretty?'

'Lovely.'

'Then I think you can count her off the Legation list. Paleologue's beentrying to interest me in a lovely German girl for weeks. I expect it'sher. Bring her along to dinner here one evening.'

****

Kätchen was delighted with the invitation. 'But we must buy a dress,'she said. 'There is an Armenian lady who has a very pretty one--brightgreen. She has never worn it because she bought it by mail and she hasgrown too fat. She asked fifty American dollars. I think if she werepaid at once it would be cheaper.' She had become cheerful again.'Wait,' she said. 'I have something to show you.'

She ran to her room and returned with a sodden square of bandana silk.'Look, I have been doing some washing after all. It is yourhandkerchief. I do not need it now. I have stopped crying for today. Wewill go and play ping pong and then see the Armenian lady's greendress.'

After luncheon Bannister telephoned. 'We've had a cable about you fromLondon.'

'Good God, why?'

'The Beast have been worrying the F.O. Apparently they think you'vebeen murdered. Why don't you send them some news.'

'I don't know any.'

'Well for heavens sake invent some. The Minister will go crazy if he hasany more bother with the newspapers. We get about six telegrams a dayfrom the coast. Apparently there's a bunch of journalists there tryingto get up and the Ishmaelite frontier authorities won't let themthrough. Two of them are British unfortunately. And now the Liberals areasking questions in the House of Commons and are worrying his life outas it is about some infernal nonsense of a concentration of fascisttroops at Laku.'

William returned to his room and sat for a long time before histypewriter. It was over a week now since he had communicated with hisemployers, and his failure weighed heavily on him. He surveyed theevents of the day, of all the last days. What would Corker have done?

Finally, with one finger, he typed a message. PLEASE DONT WORRY QUITESAFE AND WELL IN FACT RATHER ENJOYING THINGS WEATHER IMPROVING WILLCABLE AGAIN IF THERE IS ANY NEWS YOURS BOOT.

****

It was late afternoon in London; at Copper House secretaries werecarrying cups of tea to the more leisured departments; in Mr Salter'soffice there was tension and consternation.

'Weather improving,' said Mr Salter. 'Weather improving. He's beenin Jacksonburg ten days and all he can tell us is that the weather isimproving.'

'I've got to write a first leader on the Ishmaelite question,' said thefirst leader-writer. 'Lord Copper says so. I've got to wring the withersof the Government. What do I know about it? What have I got to go on?What are special correspondents for? Why don't you cable this Boot andwake him up?'

'How many times have we cabled Boot?' asked the Foreign Editor.

'Daily for the first three days, Mr Salter,' said his secretary. 'Thentwice a day. Three times yesterday.'

'You see.'

'And in the last message we mentioned Lord Copper's name,' added thesecretary.

'I never felt Boot was really suited to the job,' said Mr Salter mildly.'I was very much surprised when he was chosen. But he's all we've got.It would take three weeks to get another man out there and by that timeanything may have happened.'

'Yes, the weather may have got still better,' said the firstleader-writer, bitterly. He gazed out of the window; it opened on atiled, resonant well; he gazed at a dozen drain pipes; he gazed straightinto the office opposite, where the Art Editor was having tea; he gazedup to the little patch of sky and down to the concrete depths where amechanic was washing his neck at a cold tap; he gazed with eyes ofdespair.

'I have to denounce the vacillation of the Government in the strongestterms,' he said. 'They fiddle while Ishmaelia burns. A spark is set tothe corner-stone of civilization which will shake its roots like achilling breath. That's what I've got to say and all I know is that Bootis safe and well and that the weather is improving...'

****

Kätchen and William dropped into the Liberty for an apéritif.

It was the first time he had been there since his change of residence.

'Do either of you happen to know a gentleman by the name of Boot?' askedMrs Jackson.

'Yes, it's me.'

'Well there's some cables for you somewhere.'

They were found and delivered. William opened them one by one. They alldealt with the same topic.

BADLY LEFT ALL PAPERS ALL STORIES.

IMPERATIVE RECEIVE FULL STORY TONIGHT SIX YOUR TIME WHY NO NEWS ARE YOUILL FLASH REPLY.

YOUR CABLES UNARRIVED FEAR SUBVERSIVE INTERFERENCE SERVICE ACKNOWLEDGERECEIPT OURS IMMEDIATELY.

****

There were a dozen of them in all; the earliest of the series weremodestly signed SALTER; as the tone strengthened his name gave place toMONTGOMERY MOWBRAY GENERAL EDITOR. BEAST, then to ELSENGRATZ MANAGINGDIRECTOR MEGALOPOLITAN NEWSPAPERS. The last, which had arrived thatmorning read: CONFIDENTIAL AND URGENT STOP LORD COPPER HIMSELF GRAVELYDISSATISFIED STOP LORD COPPER PERSONALLY REQUIRES VICTORIES STOP ONRECEIPT OF THIS CABLE VICTORY STOP CONTINUE CABLING VICTORIES UNTILFURTHER NOTICE STOP LORD COPPERS CONFIDENTIAL SECRETARY.

****

'What are they all about?' asked Kätchen.

'They don't seem very pleased with me in London. They seem to want morenews.'

'How silly. Are you upset?'

'No... Well, yes, a little.'

'Poor William. I will get you some news. Listen, I have a plan. I havelived in this town for two months. I have many friends. That is to say Ihad them before my husband went away. They will be my friends againnow that they know you are helping me. It will be a good thing for bothof us. Listen; all the journalists who were here had men in the townthey paid to give them news. Mr Jakes the American pays Paleologue fiftydollars a week. You like me more than Mr Jakes likes Paleologue?'

'Much more.'

'Twice as much?'

'Yes.'

'Then you will pay me a hundred dollars a week and Frau Dressler willnot be angry with me any more, so it will be a good thing for all of us.Will you think it very greedy if I ask for a hundred dollars now; youknow how impolite Frau Dressler is--well, perhaps two hundred because Ishall work for you more than one week.'

'Very well,' said William.

'Look, I brought your cheque book for you from your room in case youmight need it. What a good secretary I should be.'

'Do you really think you can get some news.'

'Why, yes, of course. For instance I am very friendly with an Austrianman--it is his wife who made me this dress--and his sister is governessto the President's children so they know everything that goes on. I willvisit them tomorrow... only,' she added doubtfully, 'I don't think itwould be polite to go to her house and not buy anything. You are paidexpenses by your paper?'

'Yes.'

'For everything? The canoe and for this vermouth and all the things inyour room?'

'Yes.'

'Then I will be paid expenses too... the Austrian has some nightgownsshe made for a lady at the French legation only the lady's husband didnot like them, so they are very cheap. There are four of them incrêpe-de-chine. She would sell them for sixty American dollars. Shall Iget them?'

'You don't think she would give you news if you did not?'

'It would be impolite to ask.'

'Very well.'

'And the man who cut my hair--he shaves the Minister of the Interior. Hewould know a great deal. Only I cannot have my hair washed again sosoon. Shall I buy some scent from him? And I should like a rug for myroom; the floor is cold and has splinters; the Russian who sells fur isthe lover of one of the Miss Jacksons. Oh, William, what fun we shallhave working together.'

'But, Kätchen, you know, this isn't my money. You know that if I wasrich, I should give you everything you wanted, but I can't go spendingthe paper's money...'

'Silly William, it is because it is the paper's money that I can takeit. You know I could not take yours. My husband would not let me takemoney from a man, but from a newspaper... I think that MrGentakian knows a great deal of news too--you know his shop opposite thePing Pong?... Oh, William, I feel so happy tonight. Let us not goback to dine at the Pension where Frau Dressler disapproves. Let us dineagain at the Ping-Pong. We can buy some tinned caviare at Benakis andPopotakis will make us some toast...'

After dinner Kätchen became grave. 'I was so happy just now,' she said.'But now I am thinking, what is to become of me? A few weeks and youwill go away. I have waited so long for my husband; perhaps he will notcome.'

'Do you think you could bear to live in England?'

'I have lived in England. That is where I learned to speak. It was whenI was sixteen, after my father went to South America; I worked in adance hall.'

'Where?'

'I don't know. It was by the sea. I met my husband there; he was sopleased to find someone who would talk German with him. How he talked...Now you have made me think of him and I am ashamed to be drinkingchampagne when perhaps he is in trouble.'

'Kätchen, how long must you wait for him?'

'I don't know.' She unwrapped the speckled foil from the bottle ofchampagne. 'He is not a good husband to me,' she admitted, 'to go awayfor so long.' She held the foil to her face and carefully modelled itround her nose.

'Dear Kätchen, will you marry me?'

She held the false nose up to William's.

'Too long,' she said.

'Too long to wait?'

'Your nose is too long.'

'Damn,' said William.

'Now you are upset.'

'Won't you ever be serious?'

'Oh I have been serious too much, too often.' Then she added hopefully,'I might go with you now, and then when he comes back I will go withhim. Will that do?'

'I want you to come to England with me. How long must I wait?'

'Do not spoil the evening with questions. We will play ping-pong.'

That night when they reached the Pension Dressler they walked throughthe yard arm in arm; the livestock were asleep and overhead the sky wasclear and brilliant with stars.

'How long must I wait? How long?'

'Not long. Soon. When you like,' said Kätchen and ran to her loft.

The three-legged dog awoke and all over the town, in yards and refuseheaps, the pariahs took up his cries of protest.

Chapter Four

Next morning William awoke in a new world.

As he stood on the verandah calling for his boy, he slowly became awareof the transformation which had taken place overnight. The rains wereover. The boards were warm under his feet; below the steps the dankweeds of Frau Dressler's garden had suddenly burst into crimson flower;a tropic sun blazed in the sky, low at present, but with promise of afiery noon, while beyond the tin roofs of the city, where before hadhung a blank screen of slatey cloud, was now disclosed a vast landscape,mile upon mile of sunlit highland, rolling green pastures, dun and rosyterraces, villages and farms and hamlets, gardens and crops and tinystockaded shrines; crest upon crest receding to the blue peaks of theremote horizon. William called for his boy and called in vain.

'He is gone,' said Frau Dressler, crossing the yard with a load ofearthenware. 'All the boys have gone today. They are making holiday forthe end of the rains. Some German friends have come to help me.'

And William's breakfast was eventually brought him by a destitutemechanic who owed Frau Dressler for his share of the last Christmastree.

****

It was an eventful day.

At nine Erik Olafsen came to say goodbye. There was an outbreak ofplague down the line and he was off to organize a hospital. He wentwithout enthusiasm.

'It is stupid work,' he said. 'I have been in a plague hospital before.How many do you think we cured?'

'I've no idea.'

'None at all. We could only catch the patients who were too ill to move.The others ran away to the villages, so more and more people got it. Inthe civilized colonies they send soldiers not doctors. They make a ringall round the place where there is plague and shoot anyone who tries toget out. Then in a few days when everyone is dead they burn the huts.But here one can do nothing for the poor people. Well, the Governmenthave asked me to go, so I leave now. Where is Kätchen?'

'She's out shopping.'

'Good. That is very good. She was sad with such old, dirty clothes. I amvery glad she has become your friend. You will say goodbye to her.'

At ten she returned laden with packages. 'Darling,' she said, 'I havebeen so happy. Everyone is excited that the summer is come and they areall so kind and polite now they know I have a friend. Look at what Ihave bought.'

'Lovely. Did you get any news?'

'It was difficult. I had so much to say about the things I was buyingthat I did not talk politics. Except to the Austrian. The President'sgoverness had tea with the Austrian yesterday, but I am afraid you willbe disappointed. She has not seen the President for four days. You seehe is locked up.'

'Locked up?'

'Yes, they have shut him in his bedroom. They often do that when thereare important papers for him to sign. But the governess is unhappy aboutit. You see it is generally his family who lock him up and then it isonly for a few hours. This time it is Doctor Benito and the Russian andthe two black secretaries who came from America; they locked him upthree days ago and when his relatives try to see him they say he isdrunk. They would not let him go to the opening of Jackson College. Thegoverness says something is wrong.'

'Do you think I ought to report that to the Beast?'

'I wonder,' said Kätchen doubtfully. 'It is such a lovely morning. Weought to go out.'

'I believe Corker would make something of it... the editor seems veryanxious for news.'

'Very well. Only be quick. I want to go for a drive.'

She left William to his work.

He sat at the table, stood up, sat down again, stared gloomily at thewall for some minutes, lit his pipe, and then, laboriously, with asingle first finger and his heart heavy with misgiving, he typed thefirst news story of his meteoric career. No one observing that sluggishand hesitant composition could have guessed that this was a moment ofhistory--of legend, to be handed down among the great traditions of histrade, told and retold over the milk-bars of Fleet Street, quoted inbooks of reminiscence, held up as a model to aspiring pupils ofCorrespondence Schools of Profitable Writing, perennially fresh in thejaded memories of a hundred editors; the moment when Boot began to makegood.

PRESS COLLECT BEAST LONDON he wrote.

NOTHING MUCH HAS HAPPENED EXCEPT TO THE PRESIDENT WHO HAS BEENIMPRISONED IN HIS OWN PALACE BY REVOLUTIONARY JUNTA HEADED BY SUPERIORBLACK CALLED BENITO AND RUSSIAN JEW WHO BANNISTER SAYS IS UP TO NO GOODTHEY SAY HE IS DRUNK WHEN HIS CHILDREN TRY TO SEE HIM BUT GOVERNESS SAYSMOST UNUSUAL LOVELY SPRING WEATHER BUBONIC PLAGUE RAGING.

He got so far when he was interrupted.

Frau Dressler brought him a cable: YOUR CONTRACT TERMINATED STOP ACCEPTTHIS STIPULATED MONTHS NOTICE AND ACKNOWLEDGE STOP BEAST.

William added to his message, SACK RECEIVED SAFELY THOUGHT I MIGHT ASWELL SEND THIS ALL THE SAME.

****

Kätchen's head appeared at the window.

'Finished?'

'Yes.'

He rolled the cable he had received into a ball and threw it into thecorner of the room. The yard was bathed in sunshine. Kätchen wanted adrive. It was not a good time to tell her of his recall.

****

Twelve miles out of the town the coming of summer brought no joy toCorker and Pigge.

'Look at the flowers,' said Pigge.

'Yes. Like a bloody cemetery,' said Corker.

The lorry stood where it had sunk, buried in mud to the axles. On allsides lay evidence of the unavailing efforts of yesterday--stonespainfully collected from a neighbouring water-course and bedded roundthe back wheels; bruised and muddy boughs dragged in the rain from thesparse woods a mile or more distant; the great boulder which they hadrolled, it seemed, from the horizon to make a base for the jack--vainly;the heaps thrown up behind as the wheels, like a dog in a rabbit-hole,spun and burrowed. Listlessly helped by their boys, Pigge and Corker hadworked all day their faces blackened by exhaust smoke, their hands cut,soaked with rain, weary of limb, uncontrollable in temper.

It was a morning of ethereal splendour--such a morning as Noah knew ashe gazed from his pitchy bulwarks over limitless, sunlit waters whilethe dove circled and mounted and became lost in the shining heavens;such a morning as only the angels saw on the first day of that rashcosmic experiment that had resulted, at the moment, in landing Corkerand Pigge here in the mud, stiff and unshaven and disconsolate.

The earth-bound journalists turned hopelessly to the four quarters ofthe land.

'You can see for miles,' said Pigge.

'Yes,' said Corker bitterly, 'and not a bloody human being in sight.'

Their boys were dancing to celebrate the new season, clapping andshuffling and shouting a low, rhythmical song of praise. 'What the hellhave they got to be cheerful about?'

'They've been at the whisky again,' said Corker.

****

That afternoon there was the party at the British Legation. Kätchen hadnot got her card so William went alone. It did not rain. Nothing marredthe summer serenity of the afternoon. Guests of all colours andnationalities paraded the gravel walks, occasionally pausing behind theflowering shrubs to blow their noses--delicately between forefinger andthumb--as though trumpeting against the defeated devils of winter.

'The President usually comes,' said Bannister, 'but he doesn't seem tobe here today. Odd thing but there isn't a single Jackson in sight. Iwonder what's become of them all.'

'I don't know about the others but the President is locked in hisbedroom.'

'Good Lord, is he? I say you'd better talk to the old man about this.I'll try and get hold of him.'

The Minister was regarding the scene with an expression of alarm anddespair; he stood on the top step of the terrace, half in, half out ofthe french windows, in a position, dimly remembered from thehide-and-seek of his childhood as strategically advantageous; itafforded a general survey of the dispositions of the attacking forcesand offered alternative lines of retreat, indoors or through the rosegarden.

Bannister introduced William.

The Minister gave the Vice-Consul a glance of mild reproach and smiledbleakly, the wry smile of one heroically resisting an emotion of almostoverwhelming repulsion.

'So glad you could come,' he said. 'Being looked after all right? Good,excellent.'

He peered over his shoulder into the shady refuge of his study. As hedid so the door opened and three obese Indians waddled into the room;each wore a little gold skull cap, a long white shirt and a short blackcoat, each carried a strawberry ice. 'How did they get in?' he askedpetulantly. 'They've no business there at all. Get them out. Get themout.'

Bannister hurried to head them off and the Minister was left alone withWilliam.

'You are from the Beast?'

'Yes.'

'Can't say I read it myself. Don't like its politics. Don't like anypolitics... Finding Ishmaelia interesting?'

'Yes, very interesting.'

'Are you? Wish I was. But then you've got a more interesting job. Betterpaid too I expect. I wonder, how does one get a job like that. Prettydifficult I suppose, stiff examination eh?'

'No, no examination.'

'No examination? My word that's interesting. I must tell my wife. Didn'tknow you could get any job nowadays without examinations. Wretchedsystem, ruining all the services. I've got a boy in England now, lazyfellow, can't pass any examinations, don't know what to do with him.D'you suppose they'd give him a job on your paper?'

'I expect so. It seemed quite easy to me.'

'I say, that's splendid. Must tell my wife. Here she is. My dear, MrBoot here says he will give Archie a job on his paper.'

'I'm afraid I can't be much help. I got the sack this morning.'

'Did you? Did you really? Pity. Then you can't be any help to Archie.'

'No, I'm afraid not.'

'My dear,' said the Minister's wife, 'I'm very sorry indeed but I've gotto introduce a new missionary you haven't met.'

She led him away and presented a blinking giant of a young man; theMinister nodded absently to William as he left him.

****

Doctor Benito was at the party, very neat, very affable, veryself-possessed, smiling wickedly on all sides. He approached William.

'Mr Boot,' he said, 'you must be very lonely without your colleagues.'

'No, I much prefer it.'

'And it is dull for you,' Doctor Benito insisted, in the level patienttones of a mesmerist, 'very dull, with so little happening in the town.So I have arranged a little divertissement for you.'

'It is very kind but I am greatly diverted here.'

'You are too kind to our simple little city. But I think I can promiseyou something better. Now that the summer has come there will be nodifficulty. You shall have a little tour of our country and see some ofits beauties--the forest of Popo for instance and the great waterfall atChip.'

'It's very kind of you... some other time perhaps.'

'No, no, at once. It is all arranged. I have a motor-car. I cannot alasgo with you myself but I will send a charming young man--very cultured,a university graduate--who will be able to explain everything as well asI can. You will find my country people very hospitable. I have arrangedfor you to spend tonight just outside the city at the villa of thepostmaster-general. Then you will be able to start early in the morningfor the mountains. You will see much more than any of your colleagues,who, I hear, are not being fortunate in their trip to Laku. Perhaps youwill be able to do a little lion shooting.'

'Thank you very much indeed, Doctor Benito, but I don't want to leaveJacksonburg at the moment.'

'There will be room for any companion you care to take.'

'No, thank you.'

'And you will, of course, be the guest of the Government.'

'It's not that.'

'You will see most interesting native dances, curious customs,' hesmiled more horribly than before, 'some of the tribes are most primitiveand interesting.'

'I'm very sorry, I can't go.'

'But it is all arranged.'

'I'm very sorry. You should have consulted me before you took so muchtrouble.'

'My Government would not like you to lose financially by theirhospitality. I quite see that you would not be able to do your workfully during your absence but any reasonable recompense...'

'Look here, Doctor Benito,' said William. 'You're being a bore. I'm notgoing.'

Doctor Benito suddenly stopped smiling. 'Everyone will be verydisappointed,' he said.

****

William told Bannister what had been said.

'Yes, they want to get you out of the way. They don't want anyjournalists here when the fun starts. They even took the trouble toshift Olafsen. They told him there was cholera down the line.'

'Plague.'

'Some lie anyway. I'm in communication with our agent there bytelephone. Everyone's as fit as a flea.'

'Perhaps if he knew I'd got the sack he wouldn't bother so much.'

'He wouldn't believe it. He must have seen your cable, all the foreigncables go to his office before they're delivered. He thinks it's atrick. That's the disadvantage of being clever in Benito's way.'

'You seem to know most things that go on in this town.'

'It's a hobby. Must do something. If I stuck to my job I should spendthe day answering commercial questionnaires. Did you get anythinginteresting out of the Minister?'

'No.'

'He sticks to his job.'

****

As William drove back from the Legation he pondered over the question ofwhen and in what terms he should break the news of his recall toKätchen.

He need not have worried.

In the first place he found a cable awaiting him, CONGRATULATIONSUPFOLLOW FULLEST SPEEDILIEST.

In the second place Kätchen was no longer at the Pension Dressler; aposse of soldiers had come for her that afternoon and taken her away ina closed motor-car.

'I suppose it is because of her papers,' said Frau Dressler. 'Shetelephoned to the German Consulate but they would not help her. Sheshould not have been upset. When they put white people in prison herethey are well looked after. She will be as comfortable,' she added withunprofessional candour, 'as she was here. There is one of the secretpolice waiting to see you. I would not let him into your room. He is inthe dining-room.'

William found a natty young Negro smoking from a long cigarette holder.'Good-evening,' he said. 'I have come from Doctor Benito to take you fora little tour in the mountains.'

'I told Doctor Benito I could not go.'

'He hoped you would change your mind.'

'Why have you arrested Miss Kätchen?'

'It is a temporary measure, Mr Boot. She is being very well lookedafter. She is at the villa of the postmaster-general, just outside thetown. She asked me to collect some luggage for her--a parcel ofgeological specimens that were left in your room.'

'They are my property.'

'So I understand. You paid a hundred American dollars for them I think.Here is the money.'

William was by nature a man of mild temper; on the rare occasions whenhe gave way to rage the symptoms were abundantly evident. The Negrostood up, removed the cigarette end from its holder and added, 'PerhapsI should tell you that when I was at the Adventist University of AlabamaI was welter-weight champion of my year... May I repeat my offer?Doctor Benito wishes very much to examine these specimens; they are theproperty of the Government for they were collected by a foreigner whocame here without the formality of obtaining a prospecting licence fromthe Ministry of Mines--a foreigner who unfortunately is at the momentprotected by the capitulations--at the moment only. Arrangements arebeing made about him. Since you bought these specimens under amisapprehension the Government decided very generously to make an offerof reimbursement--'

'Get out,' said William.

'Very well. You will hear of this matter again.'

He rose with dignity and swaggered into the yard.

The milch-goat looked up from her supper of waste-paper; her perennialoptimism quickened within her, and swelled to a great and matureconfidence; all day she had shared the exhilaration of the season, herpelt had glowed under the newborn sun; deep in her heart she too hadmade holiday, had cast off the doubts of winter and exulted among thecrimson flowers; all day she had dreamed gloriously; now in the limpidevening she gathered her strength, stood for a moment rigid, quiveringfrom horn to tail; then charged, splendidly, irresistibly, triumphantly;the rope snapped and the welter-weight champion of the AdventistUniversity of Alabama sprawled on his face amid the kitchen garbage.

****

The events of that day were not yet ended.

As soon as Doctor Benito's agent had gone, limping and dishevelled, andthe goat, sated and peaceably disposed to retrospection, recaptured andsecured, William drove back to the British Consulate with his bag ofminerals.

'The party's over,' said Bannister. 'We all want a rest.'

'I've brought some luggage for you to keep an eye on.'

He explained the circumstances.

'If you knew the amount of work you were causing,' said Bannister, 'youwouldn't do this. From tomorrow onwards for the next six years I shallget a daily pile of bumf from the Ministry of Mines and in the end theMixed Court will decide against you--God damn all capitulations. What'sin the bag anyway?'

He opened it and examined the stones. 'Yes,' he said, 'just what Iexpected--gold ore. The mountains in the West are stiff with it. We knewit was bound to cause international trouble sooner or later. There havebeen two companies after a mineral concession--German and Russian. Sofar as the Jacksons have any political principles it has been to makethe country unprofitable for foreign investment. The President kept hisend up pretty well--played one company off against the other for months.Then the Smiles trouble started. We are pretty certain that the Germanswere behind it. The Russians have been harder to follow--we only learneda day or two ago that they had bought Benito and the Young Ishmaeliteparty. It's between Smiles and Benito now and it looks to me as ifBenito has won hands down. I'm sorry--the Jacksons were a pack of roguesbut they suited the country and they suited H.M.G. We stand to losequite a lot if they start a Soviet state here... Now you've stoppedbeing a journalist I can tell you these things.'

'As a matter of fact I've just become a journalist again. D'you mind ifI cable this to the Beast?'

'Well, don't let on that you got it from me... as a matter of fact anewspaper campaign at the moment might just do the trick.'

'There's another thing. Can you help me get a girl friend out of jug?'

'Certainly not,' said Bannister. 'I'm a keen supporter of the localprison system; it's the one thing that keeps the British ProtectedPersons off my doorstep. Its only weakness is you can buy yourself outwhen you want to for a fiver.'

****

When it was dinner time in Jacksonburg, it was tea-time in London.

'Nothing more from Boot,' said Mr Salter.

'Well, make up the Irish edition with his morning cable--rewrite it andsplash it. If the follow up comes in before six in the morning, run aspecial.'

****

William returned home with a mission; he was going to do down Benito.Dimly at first, then in vivid detail, he foresaw a spectacular,cinematographic consummation, when his country should rise chivalrouslyto arms; Bengal Lancers and kilted highlanders invested the heights ofJacksonburg; he at their head burst open the prison doors; with his ownhands he grappled with Benito, shook him like a kitten and threw himchoking out of his path; Kätchen fluttered towards him like a woundedbird and he bore her in triumph to Boot Magna... Love, patriotism,zeal for justice and personal spite flamed within him as he sat at histypewriter and began his message. One finger was not enough; he usedboth hands. The keys rose together like bristles on a porcupine, jammedand were extricated; curious anagrams appeared on the paper before him;vulgar fractions and marks of punctuation mingled with the letters.Still he typed.

The wireless station closed at nine; at five minutes to William pushedhis sheaf of papers over the counter.

'Sending tomorrow,' said the clerk.

'Must send tonight; urgent,' said William.

'No tonight. Summer holiday tonight.'

William added a handful of banknotes to the typewritten sheets. 'Sendingtonight,' he said.

'All right.'

Then William went round to dinner alone at Popotakis's.

****

'Two thousand words from Boot,' said Mr Salter.

'Any good?' asked the general editor.

'Look at it.'

The general editor looked. He saw 'Russian plot... coup d'etat...overthrow constitutional government... red dictatorship... goatbutts head of police... imprisoned blonde... vital Britishinterest jeopardized,' it was enough; it was news. 'It's news,' hesaid, 'Stop the machines at Manchester and Glasgow. Clear the line toBelfast and Paris. Scrap the whole front page. Kill the Ex-BeautyQueen's pauper funeral. Get in a photograph of Boot.'

'I don't suppose we've got a photograph of Boot in the office.'

'Ring up his family. Find his best girl. There must be a photograph ofhim somewhere in the world.'

'They took one for his passport,' said Mr Salter doubtfully, 'but Iremember thinking at the time it was an extremely poor likeness.'

'I don't care if it looks like a baboon--'

'That's just how it does look.'

'Give it two columns depth. This is the first front page foreign newswe've had for a month.'

When the final edition had left the machines, carrying William'ssensational message into two million apathetic homes, Mr Salter left theoffice.

His wife was still up when he got home.

'I've made your Ovaltine,' she said. 'Has it been a bad day?'

'Terrible.'

'You didn't have to dine with Lord Copper.'

'No, not as bad as that. But we had to remake the whole paper after ithad gone to bed. That fellow Boot.'

'The one who upset you so all last week. I thought you were sackinghim.'

'We did. Then we took him back. He's all right. Lord Copper knew best.'

Mr Salter took off his boots and Mrs Salter poured out the Ovaltine.When he had drunk it, he felt calmer.

'You know,' he said meditatively, 'it's a great experience to work for aman like Lord Copper. Again and again I've thought he was losing grip.But always it turns out he knew best. What made him spot Boot? It's asixth sense... real genius.'

****

Popotakis's was empty and William was tired. He ate his dinner andstrolled home. When he reached his room he found it filled with tobaccosmoke, a cheroot, one of his cheroots, glowed in the darkness. A voice,with a strong German accent said, 'Close the shutters, please, beforeyou turn on the light.'

William did as he was asked. A man rose from the armchair, clicked hisheels and made a guttural sound. He was a large blond man of militarybut somewhat dilapidated appearance. He wore khaki shorts and an openshirt, boots ragged and splashed with mud. His head, once shaven, wascovered with stubble, uniform with his chin, like a clipped yew in aneglected garden.

'I beg your pardon?' said William.

The man clicked his heels again and made the same throaty sound, adding,'That is my name.'

'Oh,' said William. Then he came to attention and said 'Boot.'

They shook hands.

'I must apologize for using your room. Once it was mine. I did not knowuntil I found your luggage here, that there had been a change. I leftsome specimens of ore. Do you by any chance know what has become ofthem?'

'I have them safe.'

'Well it is of no importance now... I left a wife, too. Have you seenher?'

'She is in prison.'

'Yes,' said the German, without surprise. 'I suppose she is. They willput me in prison too. I have just come from my Consulate. They say theywill not protect me. I cannot complain. They warned me before we startedthat if I failed they could not protect me... and I have failed...if you will excuse me, I will sit down. I am very tired.'

'Have you had any dinner?'

'Not for two days. I have just returned from the interior. We could notstop to sleep or to look for food. All the way back they were trying tokill me. They had paid the bandits. I am very tired and very hungry.'

William took a case from the pile of stores; it was corded and wired andlined and battened to resist all emergencies. He struggled for some timewhile the German sat in a kind of melancholy stupor; then he said,'There's some food in here if you can get it open.'

'Food.' At the word the German came to his senses. With surprisingdexterity he got the blade of his clasp knife under the lid of the box;it fell open revealing William's Christmas dinner.

They spread it on the table--turkey, plum pudding, crystallized plums,almonds, raisins, champagne and crackers. The German cried a little,nostalgically, teutonically. Then he began to gorge, at first insilence, later, with the dessert, loquaciously.

'...three times they shot at me on the road--but the bandits havevery old rifles. Not like the rifles we gave to Smiles. We gave himeverything, machine guns, tanks, consulates; we bought him two Parisnewspapers, a column a day week after week--you know what that costs.There were five thousand volunteers ready to sail. He could have been inJacksonburg in a month. No one wants the Jacksons here. They are foolishpeople. For a year we have been trying to make business with them. Theysaid first one thing, then another. We gave them money; we gave them allmoney; heavens how many Jacksons there are! Still they would not makebusiness...'

'I ought to warn you that I am a journalist.'

'That is well. When you come to write of this affair say that it was notmy fault that we failed. It was Smiles. We gave him money and he ranaway to the Soudan. He wanted me to go with him.'

'Wouldn't that have been better?'

'I had left my wife in Jacksonburg... besides, it is not good for meto go to the Soudan. I was once in trouble in Khartoum. There are manycountries where it is not good for me to go. I have often been veryfoolish.' At the thought of his wife and of his former indiscretions heseemed once more to be overcome with melancholy. He sat in silence.William began to fear he would fall asleep.

'Where are you going now?' he asked. 'You can't stay here, you know, orthey will come and arrest you.'

'No,' said the German. 'I can't stay here.' And immediately he fellasleep, mouth open, head back, a crumpled cracker in his right hand,breathing uproariously.

****

And still that day was not ended.

Hardly had the German's preliminary, convulsive snorts and gurgles givenplace to the gentler, automatic, continuous snoring of regular sleep,than William was again disturbed.

The night watchman stood clucking in the doorway, pointing towards thegates, smiling and nodding unintelligibly. The German never stirred; hissnores followed William across the yard.

At the gates a motor-car was waiting. Its lights had been turned off.The yard and the lane outside it, were in darkness. A voice from insidethe car said, 'William, is it you?' Kätchen scrambled out and ran tohim--as he had imagined it, like a wounded bird. 'Darling, darling,' hesaid.

They clung together. In the darkness he could discern over Kätchen'sshoulder the figure of the night watchman, stork like, on one leg, hisspear behind his shoulders.

'Darling,' said Kätchen. 'Have you got any money with you?'

'Yes.'

'A lot?'

'Yes.'

'I promised the driver a hundred American dollars. Was it too much?'

'Who is he?'

'The postmaster-general's chauffeur. They have arrested thepostmaster-general. He was a Jackson. All the Jacksons are beingarrested. He got the key of the room when the soldiers were havingsupper. I said I would give him a hundred dollars if he brought meback.'

'Tell him to wait. I'll get the money from my room.'

The driver wrapped himself in his blanket and settled down over thewheel. Kätchen and William stood together in the yard.

'I must go away,' said Kätchen. 'We must go away. I have thought aboutit in the motor-car. You must marry me. Then I shall be British and theywill not be able to hurt me. And we will leave Ishmaelia at once. Nomore journalism. We will go to Europe together. Will you do that?'

'Yes,' said William without hesitation.

'And will you marry me properly--in an office?'

'Yes.'

'It will be the first time I have been properly married.' The tremendousrespirations echoed across the yard. 'What is that? William, there issomething making a noise in your room.'

'Yes, I had forgotten--you made me forget. Come and see who it is.'

They climbed the steps, hand in hand, crossed the verandah and reachedthe door of William's room.

Kätchen dropped his hand and ran forward with a little cry. She knelt atthe German's side and held him, shook him. He stirred and grunted andopened his eyes. They spoke to one another in German; Kätchen nestledagainst him; he laid his cheek against her head and lapsed again intocoma.

'How happy I am,' she said. 'I thought he would never come back, that hewas dead or had left me. How he sleeps. Is he well? Is he hungry?'

'No,' said William. 'I don't think you need have any anxiety on thatpoint. Within the last hour, to my certain knowledge, he has consumed anentire Christmas dinner designed for four children or six adults.'

'He must have been starving. Is he not thin?'

'No,' said William. 'Frankly I should not have called him thin.'

'Ah, you should have seen him before he went away... How he snores.That is a good sign. Whenever he is well he snores like this.' Shebrooded fondly over the unconscious figure. 'But he is dirty.'

'Yes,' said William, 'very dirty indeed.'

'William, you sound so cross suddenly. Are you not glad my husband hascome back to me.'

'Come back to you?'

'William, you are not jealous? How I despise jealousy. You could not bejealous of my husband. I have been with him for two years, before everyou and I met. I knew he would not leave me. But what are we to do now?I must think...'

They both thought, not on the same lines.

'I have a plan,' said Kätchen at last.

'Yes?' said William gloomily.

'I think it will work nice. My husband is German so the Ishmaelites willnot be allowed to hurt him. It is harder for me because of my papers. SoI will marry you. Then I shall be English and I and my husband can goaway together. You will give us our tickets to Europe. It will not beexpensive, we will travel in the second class.... How is that?'

'There are several serious objections; for one thing the German Legationare not going to protect your friend.'

'Oh dear, I thought if one had papers one was always safe everywhere...I must think of another plan... If after I marry you, I marrymy husband, he would then be English, yes?'

'No.'

'Oh dear.'

They had to speak with raised voices to make themselves heard above theGerman's snores. 'Would it be very unkind to wake my husband? He isalways full of ideas. He has great experience of difficulties.'

She shook him into sensibility and they spoke together earnestly inGerman.

William began to collect the distasteful remains of the Christmasdinner; he put the crackers back in their box and arranged the emptytins and bottles outside his door beside his dirty shoes.

'Our only hope is the postmaster-general's chauffeur,' said Kätchen atlast. 'The town guards know him. If they have not yet heard that thepostmaster-general is in prison he can drive through the barricadeswithout difficulty. But he could not get to the frontier. They wouldtelegraph for him to be stopped. The railway is impossible.'

'There is the river,' said the German. 'It is high. We could strike itbelow the cataract fifteen miles from here. Then we could sail down toFrench territory--if we had a boat.'

'How much would a boat cost?' asked Kätchen.

'Once in the Matto Grosso I made a boat,' said the German dreamily. 'Iburned out the centre of an iron wood tree. It took ten weeks to make,and it sank like a stone.'

'A boat,' said Kätchen. 'But you have a boat--our boat.'

****

They drove through the streets of the sleeping city, the German in frontwith the postmaster-general's chauffeur, Kätchen and William at the backwith the canoe. A few hyenas flashed red eyes at them from the rubbishheaps, then turned their mangy quarters and scuttled off into the night.

The guards at the barrier saluted and let them pass into the opencountry. They drove in silence.

'I will send you a postcard,' said Kätchen, at last, 'to tell you we arewell.'

Day was breaking as they reached the river; they came upon it suddenlywhere it flowed black and swift between low banks. There they assembledthe canoe; William and Kätchen did the work, as they had done before; itwas familiar; there was no adventure now in fitting the sockets. TheGerman sat on the running-board of the car, still stupefied with thelack of sleep; his eyes were open; his mouth also. When the boat wasready they called to him to join them.

'It is very small,' he said.

William stood knee deep among the reeds holding it with difficulty; thecurrent tugged and sucked. Kätchen climbed in balancing precariously,with a hand on William's arm; then the German; the boat sank almost tothe gunwales.

'We shall not have room for the stores,' said Kätchen.

'My boat in Matto Grosso was twenty feet long,' said the German drowsily'it turned over and went straight to the bottom. Two of my boys weredrowned. They had always said it would sink.'

'If we get safely to the French border' said Kätchen, 'shall we leavethe boat there for you. Will you want it again?'

'No.'

'We might sell it and send you the money.'

'Yes.'

'Or we could keep the money until we get to Europe--it will be easier tosend.'

'It is an abstract speculation,' said the German, suddenly awake, andimpatient. 'It is a question purely of academic interest. We shall notreach the French border. Let us start.'

'Goodbye,' said Kätchen.

The two figures sat opposite one another, knees touching, expectant, asthough embarking upon the ornamental waters of a fair-ground; lovers forthe day's outing, who had stood close in a queue, and now waited halfreluctant to launch into the closer intimacy of the grottoes andtransparencies.

William released the boat; it revolved once or twice slowly, as itdrifted into mid-stream; there it was caught in the full power of theflood, and spinning dizzily was swept out of sight into the dawn.

****

William returned to his empty room. The boy had put back the débris ofthe Christmas dinner, carefully ranged upon the writing table. A cleftstick lay across the bed, bearing no message for William. He sat down athis table and with his eyes fixed on the label of the turkey-tin, beganto compose his despatch.

'Take to wireless,' he ordered his boy. 'Sit on step till open. Thencome back and sit on this step. Don't let anyone in. Want to sleep verymuch.'

But he did not sleep very much.

The boy shook him at half-past ten. 'No send,' he said, waving thetypewritten message.

William painfully roused himself from his brief sleep. 'Why no send?'

'No Jacksons. No Government. No send.'

William dressed and went to the wireless bureau. A jaunty black facesmiled at him through the guichet; starched collar, bow tie, long ivorycigarette holder--the welter-weight.

'Good morning,' said William. 'I hope you are not feeling too sore afteryour meeting with the goat. Where is the wireless clerk?'

'He is on a little holiday. I have taken over from him.'

'My boy says that this cable has been refused.'

'That is so. We are very much occupied with Government business. I thinkwe shall be occupied all day, perhaps for several days. It would havebeen far better if you had gone for the tour we had planned for you.Meanwhile perhaps you would like to see the manifesto that we areissuing. I think you do not read Ishmaelite?'

'No.'

'A very barbarous language. I have never learned it. Soon we shall makeRussian the official language of the country. I have a copy here inEnglish.'

He handed William a sheet of crimson paper headed WORKERS OF ISHMAELIAUNITE and snapped down the trap of the guichet.

William stepped out into the sunlight. A black man on a ladder waspainting out the name of Jackson Street. Someone had stencilled a sickleand hammer on the front of the post office, a red flag hung limpoverhead. He read the manifesto as he returned to the Pension Dressler.

...development of mineral resources of the workers by the workersfor the workers... Jacksons to be speedily brought to trial...arraigned for high treason to the Revolution... liquidated... NewCalendar. Year One of the Soviet State of Ishmaelia...

In the yard he crumpled the paper into a scarlet ball and tossed it tothe goat; it went down like an oyster.

He stood on his verandah and looked across to the beastly attic fromwhich Kätchen used to greet him, at about this time in the morning,calling him to come out to Popotakis's Ping-Pong Parlour.

'Change and decay in all around I see,' he sang softly, almostunctuously. It was the favourite tune of his uncle Theodore.

He bowed his head.

'Oh great crested grebe,' he prayed, 'maligned fowl, have I not expiatedthe wrong my sister did you; am I still to be an exile from the greenplaces of my heart? Was there not even in the remorseless dooms ofantiquity a god from the machine?'

He prayed without hope.

And then above the multitudinous noises of the Pension Dressler came asmall sound, an insistent, swelling monotone. The servants in the yardlooked up. The sound increased and high above them in the cloudless sky,rapidly approaching, there appeared an aeroplane. The sound ceased asthe engine was cut off. The machine circled and dropped silently. It wasimmediately overhead when a black speck detached itself and fell towardsthem; white stuff streamed behind it, billowed and spread. The enginesang out again; the machine swooped up and away, out of sight andhearing. The little domed tent paused and gently sank, as thoughimmersed in depths of limpid water.

'If he comes onto my roof,' said Frau Dressler. 'If he breaksanything...'

The parachutist came on the roof; he broke nothing. He landed delicatelyon the tips of his toes; the great sail crumpled and collapsed behindhim; he deftly extricated himself from the bonds and stood clear. Hetook a comb from his pocket and settled the slightly disordered auburnhair about his temples, glancing at his watch, bowed to Frau Dresslerand asked for a ladder, courteously in five or six languages. Theybrought him one. Rung by rung, on pointed, snake skin toes, he descendedto the yard. The milch-goat reverently made way for him. He smiledpolitely at William; then recognized him.

'Why,' he exclaimed. 'It is my fellow traveller, the journalist. Howagreeable to meet a fellow Britisher in this remote spot.'

Chapter Five

The sun sank behind the gum trees and the first day of the Soviet Stateof Ishmaelia ended in crimson splendour. The deserted bar-room ofPopotakis's Ping-Pong Parlour glowed in the fiery sunset.

'I really do not know how to thank you,' said William.

'Please,' said his companion, laying a hand lightly on his, 'please donot embarrass me. The words you have just used seem to haunt me,wherever I go. Ever since that auspicious afternoon when you were kindenough to give me a place in your aeroplane, I have feared sooner orlater, to hear them on your lips. I suggested as much at the time, Ithink, if my memory does not deceive me.'

Mr Popotakis switched on the lights above the ping-pong table and asked,'You want a game, Mr Baldwin?' for it was by this name that William'sfriend now preferred to be called.

('It is a convenient name,' he had explained. 'Noncommittal, British andabove all easily memorable. I am often obliged to pursue my businessinterests under an alias. My man Cuthbert chooses them for me. He has akeen sense of what is fitting, but he sometimes luxuriates a little.There have been times when his more fanciful inventions have entirelyslipped my memory at important moments. So now I am plain Mr Baldwin. Ibeg you to respect my confidence.')

Mr Baldwin resumed his little dissertation.

'In the rough and tumble of commercial life,' he said, 'I endeavour torequite the kindnesses I receive. The kindnesses have become moreprofuse and the rewards more substantial of recent years... however Iam sure that in you I met an entirely disinterested benefactor. I amglad to have prospered your professional career so inexpensively.

'Do you know, my first impression of you was not of a young man destinedfor great success in journalism? Quite the reverse. In fact, to be frankwith you, I was sceptical of your identity and when you told me of yourdestination, I feared you might be coming here with some ulteriorobject. If I seemed evasive in the early days of our--I hope I maysay--friendship, you must forgive me.

'And now Mr Popotakis is offering us a game of ping-pong. For my part, Ithink it might be refreshing.'

Mr Baldwin removed his coat and rolled the sleeves of his crêpe-de-chineshirt. Then he took his bat and poised himself expectantly at the end ofthe table. William served. Love, fifteen; love, thirty; love, forty,game; fifteen, love; thirty, love; forty, love; game. The little man wasubiquitous, ambidexterous. He crouched and bounded and skipped, slammingand volleying; now spanning the net, now five yards back, now flickingthe ball from below his knees, now rocketing high among the electriclights; keeping up all the while a bright, bantering conversation indemotic Greek with Mr Popotakis.

At the end of the love set he resumed his coat and said, 'Quarter-pastsix. No doubt you are impatient to send your second message...' For aprivate wireless transmitter was one of the amenities to which Williamhad been introduced that day.

Since Mr Baldwin's arrival Jacksonburg, or Marxville as it had beencalled since early that morning, had proved a town of unsuspectedconveniences.

'I have a little pied à terre here,' Mr Baldwin had explained whenWilliam suggested their lunching at the Pension Dressler. 'My manCuthbert has been putting it in order. I have not seen it and I fear theworst, but he is a sensitive fellow and might be put out if I lunchedaway from home on the day of my arrival. Will you not share theadventure of lunching with me?'

They walked, for Mr Baldwin complained that his flight had brought on aslight stiffness of the legs. He took William's arm, guiding him throughthe less frequented byways of the town and questioning him earnestlyabout the events of the last twenty-four hours.

'And where are your colleagues? I anticipated being vexed by them.'

'They have all gone off into the interior to look for Smiles.'

'That is excellent. You will be the sole spectator at the last act ofour little drama.'

'It won't be much help. They've shut the wireless bureau.'

'It shall be opened soon. Meanwhile I have no doubt Cuthbert will beable to accommodate you. He and a Swiss associate of mine have fixed upa little makeshift which appears to work. I have been in correspondencewith them daily.'

Even in the side streets there was evidence of the new regime; twicethey were obliged to shelter as police lorries thundered past them ladenwith glaucous prisoners. The Café Wilberforce had changed its name toCafé Lenin. There had been a distribution of red flags, which,ingeniously knotted or twisted, had already set a fashion in headdressesamong the women of the market.

'I ought to have come yesterday,' said Mr Baldwin peevishly. 'It wouldhave saved a great deal of unnecessary reorganization. God bless my soulthere's another of those police vans.' They skipped for a doorway. Inthe centre of a machine-gun squad, William recognized the dignifiedfigure of Mr Earl Russell Jackson.

At length their way led them to the outskirts of the city to thenondescript railway quarter, where sidings and goods yards andwarehouses stood behind a stockade of blue gums and barbed wire. Theypassed an iron gate and approached a bungalow.

'It is M. Giraud's,' said Mr Baldwin. 'And this is M. Giraud, but Ithink that introductions are superfluous.'

The bearded ticket collector greeted them deferentially from theverandah.

'M. Giraud has been in my service for some time,' said Mr Baldwin. 'Hehad in fact been in consultation with me when you had the pleasure oftravelling with him from the coast. I followed his brief period ofpublic prominence with interest and, to be quite frank, with anxiety. IfI may criticize without offence the profession you practise--at thisparticular moment with almost unique success--I should say that youreporters missed a good story in M. Giraud's little trip. I read thenewspapers with lively interest. It is seldom that they are absolutely,point blank wrong. That is the popular belief, but those who are in theknow can usually discern an embryo truth, a little grit of fact, likethe core of a pearl, round which has been deposited the delicate layersof ornament. In the present case, for instance, there was a Russianagent arranging to take over the government; M. Giraud was animportant intermediary. But he was not the Russian. The workings ofcommerce and politics are very, very simple, but not quite as simple asyour colleagues represent them. My man Cuthbert was also on the trainwith you. He should have given you a clue, but no one recognized him. Hedrove the engine. It was due to his ignorance of local usage that thelost luggage van was eventually recovered.'

'And may I ask,' said William diffidently, 'since you are telling me somuch whose interests do you represent?'

'My own,' said the little man simply. 'I plough a lonely furrow...Let us see what they have been able to scrape up for luncheon.'

They had scraped up fresh river fish, and stewed them with white wineand aubergines; also a rare local bird which combined the tender flavourof the partridge with the solid bulk of the turkey; they had roasted itand stuffed it with bananas, almonds and red peppers; also a babygazelle which they had seethed with truffles in its mother's milk; alsoa dish of feathery arab pastry and a heap of unusual fruits. Mr Baldwinsighed wistfully. 'Well,' he said, 'I suppose it will not hurt us torough it for once. We shall appreciate the pleasures of civilization allthe more... but my descent in the parachute gave me quite anappetite. I had hoped for something a little more enterprising.'

He swallowed his digestive pills, praised the coffee, and then expresseda desire to sleep.

'Cuthbert will look after you,' he said. 'Give him anything you wantsent to your paper.'

The wireless transmitter was in and beneath the garage; its mast rosehigh overhead, cleverly disguised as an eucalyptus tree. William watchedthe first words of his rejected despatch sputter across the ether to MrSalter; then he, too, decided to sleep.

At five o'clock, when he reappeared, Mr Baldwin was in a different, moreconspicuous suit and the same mood of urbanity and benevolence.

'Let us visit the town,' he had said and, inevitably, they had gone toPopotakis's and they sat there at sunset in the empty bar-room.

****

'...No doubt you are impatient to send off your second message, Itrust that the little mystery of the situation here is now perfectlyclear to you.'

'Well... No... not exactly.'

'No? There are still gaps? Tut, tut, Mr Boot, the foreign correspondentof a great newspaper should be able to piece things together forhimself. It is all very simple. There has been competition for themineral rights of Ishmaelia which, I may say as their owner, have beenpreposterously overvalued. In particular the German and the RussianGovernments were willing to pay extravagantly--but in kind. Unhappilyfor them the commodities they had to offer, treasures from the Imperialpalaces, timber, toys and so forth, were not much in demand inIshmaelia--in presidential circles at any rate. President Jackson hadlong wanted to make adequate provision for his retirement and I wasfortunately placed in being able to offer him gold for his goldconcession; my rivals found themselves faced by the alternatives ofabandoning their ambitions or upsetting President Jackson. They bothpreferred the latter, more romantic course. The Germans, with a minimumof discernment, chose to set up a native of low character named Smilesas prospective dictator. I never had any serious fears of him. TheRussians more astutely purchased the Young Ishmaelite party and are, asyou see, momentarily in the ascendant.

'That I think should give you your material for an article.'

'Yes,' said William. 'Thank you very much. I'm sure Mr Salter and LordCopper will be very grateful.'

'Dear me, how little you seem to have mastered the correct procedure ofyour profession. You should ask me whether I have any message for theBritish public. I have. It is this: Might must find a way. Not"Force" remember; other nations use "force"; we Britons alone use"Might". Only one thing can set things light--sudden and extremeviolence, or better still, the effective threat of it. I am committed tovery considerable sums in this little gamble and, alas, our countrymenare painfully tolerant nowadays of the losses of their financialsuperiors. One sighs for the days of Pam or Dizzy. I possess a littleinfluence in political quarters but it will strain it severely toprovoke a war on my account. Some semblance of popular support, such asyour paper can give, would be very valuable... But I dislikeembarrassing my affairs with international issues. I should greatlyprefer it, if the thing could be settled neatly and finally, here andnow.'

As he spoke there arose from the vestibule a huge and confused tumult;the roar of an engine which in the tranquil bar-room sounded like aflight of heavy aeroplanes, a series of percussions like high explosivebombs, shrill, polyglot human voices inarticulate with alarm and abovethem all a deep bass, trolling chant, half nautical, halfecclesiastical. The flimsy structure throbbed and shook from its shallowfoundation to its asbestos roof; the metal-bound doors flew openrevealing, first, the two commissionaires, backing into the bar and,next, driving them before him, a very large man astride a motor-bicycle.He rode slowly between the ping-pong tables, then put his feet to thefloor and released the handle-bars. The machine shot from under him,charged the bar, and lay on its side with its back wheel spinning in acloud of exhaust-gas, while the rider, swaying ponderously from side toside like a performing bear, surveyed the room in a puzzled but friendlyspirit.

It was the Swede; but a Swede transfigured, barely recognizable as themild apostle of the coffee pot and the sticking plaster. The hair of hishead stood like a tuft of ornamental, golden grass; a vinous flush litthe upper part of his face, the high cheek bones, the blank, calf likeeyes; on the broad concavities of his forehead the veins bulgedvaricously. Still singing his nordic dirge he saluted the empty chairsand ambled towards the bar.

At the first alarm Mr Popotakis had fled the building. The Swede spannedthe counter and fumbled in the shelf beyond. William and Mr Baldwinwatched him fascinated as he raised bottle after bottle to his nose,sniffed and tossed them disconsolately behind him. Presently he foundwhat he wanted--the sixty per cent. He knocked off the neck, none tooneatly, and set the jagged edge to his lips; his adam's apple rose andfell. Then, refreshed, he looked about him again. The motor-bicycle athis feet, churning and stinking, attracted his notice and he silenced itwith a single tremendous kick.

'Might,' said Mr Baldwin reverently.

The Swede's eyes travelled slowly about him, settled on William,goggled, squinted, and betrayed signs of recognition. He swayed acrossthe room and took William's hand in a paralysing grip; he jabbedhospitably at his face with the broken bottle and addressed him warmlyand at length in Swedish.

Mr Baldwin replied. The sound of his own tongue in a strange landaffected Olafsen strongly. He sat down and cried while Mr Baldwin, stillin Swedish, spoke to him comfortably.

'Sometimes it is necessary to dissemble one's nationality,' he explainedto William. 'I have given our friend here to believe that I am acompatriot.'

The black mood passed. Olafsen gave a little whoop and lunged in amenacing manner with the absinthe bottle.

He introduced William to Mr Baldwin.

'This is my great friend, Boot,' he said, 'a famous journalist. He is myfriend though I have been made a fool. I have been made a fool,' hecried louder and more angrily, 'by a lot of blacks. They sent me downthe line to an epidemic and I was laughed at. But I am going to tell thePresident. He is a good old man and he will punish them. I will go tohis residence, now, and explain everything.'

He rose from the table and bent over the disabled motor-bicycle. MrPopotakis peeped round the corner of the service door and, seeing theSwede still in possession, popped back out of sight.

'Tell me,' said Mr Baldwin. 'Your friend here--does he become more orless pugnacious with drink?'

'I believe, more.'

'Then let us endeavour to repay his hospitality.'

With his own hands Mr Baldwin fetched a second bottle of sixty per centfrom the shelf. Tolerantly conforming to the habits of the place, hesnapped off the neck and took a hearty swig; then he passed the bottleto the Swede. In a short time they were singing snatches of lugubriousBaltic music, Mr Baldwin matching the Swede's deep bass, in his ringingalto. Between their songs they drank and between drinks Mr Baldwinexplained, concisely but with many repetitions, the constitutionalchanges of the last twenty-four hours.

'Russians are bad people.'

'Very bad.'

'They say they are Princes and they borrow money!'

'Yes.'

'President Jackson is a good old man. He gave me a harmonium for mymission. Some of the Jacksons are silly fellows, but the President is myfriend.'

'Exactly.'

'I think,' said the Swede, rising, 'we will go and see my friendJackson.'

****

The Presidential Residence, on this first, and, as it turned out, last,evening of the Soviet State of Ishmaelia, was ceremoniously illuminated,not with the superb floods of concealed arc lamps dear to the moremature dictatorships, but, for want of better, with a multitude of'fairy lights' with which the Jacksons were wont to festoon the verandahon their not infrequent official birthdays; all the windows of thefaçade, ten of them, were unshuttered and the bright lamps behind gavecosy glimpses of Nottingham lace, portières and enlarged photographs. Ared flag hung black against the night sky. Dr Benito, backed by a groupof 'Young Ishmaelites,' stood on the central balcony. A large crowd hadassembled to see the lights.

'What is he saying?' asked William.

'He has proclaimed the abolition of Sunday and he is calling forvolunteers for a ten day, fifty hour, week. I do not think he has chosenthe occasion with tact.'

The Swede had left them, pushing forward on his errand of liberation.William and Mr Baldwin stood at the back of the crowd. The temper of thepeople was apathetic. They liked to see the palace lit up. Oratorypleased them, whatever its subject; sermons, educational lectures,political programmes, panegyrics of the dead or living, appeals forcharity--all had the same soporific effect. They liked the human voicein all its aspects, most particularly when it was exerted in sustainedathletic effort. They had, from time to time, heard too many unfulfilledprophecies issue from that balcony to feel any particular apprehensionsabout the rigours of the new regime. Then, while Benito was well in hisstride, a whisper of interest passed through them; necks were stretched.The Swede had appeared at the ground floor window. Benito, sensing thenew alertness in his audience raised his voice, rolled his eyes andflashed his white teeth. The audience stood tip-toe with expectation.They could see what he could not--the Swede in a lethargic but effectivemanner, liquidating the front parlour. He pulled the curtains down, heswept the fourteen ornamental vases off the chimney-piece, with a loudcrash he threw a pot of fern through the window. The audience clappedenthusiastically. The 'Young Ishmaelites' behind Benito began toconsult, but the speaker, unconscious of all except his own eloquence,continued to churn the night air with Marxian precepts.

To the spectators at the back of the crowd, out of earshot of the minorsounds, the sequence unfolded itself with the happy inconsequence of anearly comedy film. The revolutionary committee left their leader's sideand disappeared from view to return, almost immediately, in rout,backwards, retreating before the Swede who now came into the light ofthe upper drawing-room brandishing a small gilt chair over his head.

It was not ten feet drop from the balcony. The traditional, ineradicableawe of the white man combined with the obvious, immediate peril of thewhirling chair legs to decide the issue. With one accord they plungedover the rail onto the woolly pates below. Benito was the last to go,proclaiming class war with his last audible breath.

The Swede addressed the happy people in Ishmaelite.

'He says he is looking for his friend President Jackson,' explained MrBaldwin.

A cheer greeted the announcement. 'Jackson' was one of the perenniallyexhilarating words in the Ishmaelite vocabulary; a name associated sincechildhood with every exciting event in Ishmaelite life. They had beenagreeably surprised to learn that the Jacksons had that morning all beensent to prison; now, it would be a treat to see them all again. As longas something, good or ill, was happening to the Jacksons, theIshmaelites felt an intelligent interest in politics. Soon they were allcrying: 'Jackson. Jackson. Jackson.'

'Jackson. Jackson,' shouted Mr Baldwin, at William's side. 'I think wemay be satisfied that the counter-revolution has triumphed.'

****

An hour later William sat in his room at the Pension Dressler and beganhis despatch to the Beast.

From the main street a short distance away could be heard sounds ofrejoicing from the populace. President Jackson had been found, locked inthe wood shed. Now, dazed and stiff, he was being carried shoulder highabout the city; other processions had formed about other members of theliberated family. Now and then rival processions met and came to blows.Mr Popotakis had boarded up his café but several Indian drink-shops hadbeen raided and the town was settling down to a night of jollity.

PRESS COLLECT URGENT MAN CALLED MISTER BALDWIN HAS BOUGHT COUNTRY, William began.

'No,' said a gentle voice behind him. 'If you would not resent myco-operation, I think I can compose a despatch more likely to please mygood friend Copper.'

Mr Baldwin sat at William's table and drew the typewriter towardshimself. He inserted a new sheet of paper, tucked up his cuffs and beganto write with immense speed:

MYSTERY FINANCIER RECALLED EXPLOITS RHODES LAWRENCE TODAY SECURING VASTEAST AFRICAN CONCESSION BRITISH INTERESTS IN TEETH ARMED OPPOSITIONBOLSHEVIST SPIES...

'It will make about five full columns,' he said, when it was finished.'From my experience of newspapers I think I can safely say that theywill print it in full. I am afraid we are too late for tomorrow's paper,but there is no competition to fear. Perhaps I shall have the felicityof finding you as my fellow traveller on the return journey.'

The sounds of rejoicing drew nearer and rose to a wild hubbub in thelane outside.

'Dear me,' said Mr Baldwin. 'How disconcerting. I believe they havefound me out.'

But it was only General Gollancz Jackson being pulled about the town inhis motor-car. The bare feet pattered away in the darkness. The cries ofacclamation faded.

A knock on the door.

Cuthbert reported that, in view of the disturbed state of the town, hehad taken the liberty of bringing his master's sheets to the PensionDressler and making up a bed for him there.

'You did quite right, Cuthbert... And now, if you will forgive me, Iwill say good-night. I have had an unusually active day.'

Book Three
Banquet

Chapter One

The bells of St Bride's chimed unheard in the customary afternoon din ofthe Megalopolitan Building. The country edition had gone to bed; belowtraffic-level, in grotto-blue light, leagues of paper ran noisilythrough the machines; overhead, where floor upon floor rose from thedusks of the streets to the clear air of day, ground-glass doors openedand shut; figures in frayed and perished braces popped in and out; on ahundred lines reporters talked at cross purposes; sub-editors busiedthemselves with their humdrum task of reducing to blank nonsense thesheaves of misinformation which whistling urchins piled before them;beside a hundred typewriters soggy biscuits lay in a hundred tepidsaucers. At the hub and still centre of all this animation, Lord Coppersat alone in splendid tranquillity. His massive head, empty of thought,rested in sculptural fashion upon his left fist. He began to draw alittle cow on his writing pad.

Four legs with cloven feet, a ropy tail, swelling udder and modestlydiminished teats, a chest and head like an Elgin marble--all this wasstraightforward stuff. Then came the problem--which was the higher,horns or ears? He tried it one way, he tried it the other; both lookedequally unconvincing; he tried different types of ear--tiny, felinetriangles, asinine tufts of hair and gristle, even, in desperation,drooping flaps remembered from a guinea-pig in the backyard of hisearliest home; he tried different types of horn--royals, the elegantantennae of the ibex, the vast armoury of moose and buffalo. Soon thepaper before him was covered like the hall of a hunter with freakishheads. None looked right. He brooded over them and found nosatisfaction.

It was thus that Mr Salter found him.

Mr Salter had not wanted to come and see Lord Copper. He had nothingparticular to say. He had not been summoned. But he had the right ofentry to his owner's presence, and it was only thus, he believed, byunremitting wholly uncongenial self-assertion, that he could ever hopefor a change of job.

'I wanted to consult you about Bucharest,' he said.

'Ah.'

'There's a long story from Jepson about a pogrom. Have we any policy inBucharest?'

Lord Copper roused himself from his abstraction. 'Someone on this papermust know about cows,' he said petulantly.

'Cows, Lord Copper?'

'Don't we keep a man to write about the country?'

'Oh. That was Boot, Lord Copper.'

'Well have him come and see me.'

'We sent him to Africa.'

'Well have him come back. What's he doing there? Who sent him?'

'He is on his way back now. It was Boot who brought off the great storyin Ishmaelia. When we scooped Hitchcock,' he added, for Lord Copper wasfrowning in a menacing way.

Slowly the noble face lightened.

'Ah, yes, smart fellow, Boot. He was the right man for that job.'

'It was you who discovered him, Lord Copper.'

'Of course, naturally... had my eye on him for some time. Glad hemade good. There's always a chance for real talent on the Beast, eh,Salter?'

'Definitely, Lord Copper.'

'Preparations going ahead for Boot's reception?'

'Up to a point.'

'Let me see, what was it we decided to do for him?'

'I don't think, Lord Copper, that the question was ever actuallyraised.'

'Nonsense. It is a matter I have particularly at heart. Boot has doneadmirably. He is an example to everyone on the staff--everyone. I wishto show my appreciation in a marked manner. When do you say he getsback?'

'At the end of next week.'

'I will thank him personally... You never had any faith in that boy,Salter.'

'Well...'

'I remember it quite distinctly. You wished to have him recalled. But Iknew he had the makings of a journalist in him. Was I right?'

'Oh, definitely, Lord Copper.'

'Well then, let us have no more of these petty jealousies. The office isriddled with them. I shall make it my concern to see that Boot issubstantially rewarded... What, I wonder, would meet the case?...'Lord Copper paused undecided. His eye fell on the page of drawings andhe covered it with his blotting paper. 'Suppose,' he said at length, 'wegave him another good foreign assignment. There is this all-womenexpedition to the South Pole--bound to be a story in that. Do you thinkthat would meet the case?'

'Up to a point, Lord Copper.'

'Not too lavish?'

'Definitely not.'

'I imagine that the expenses of an expedition of that kind will beheavy. Have to charter his own ship--I understand they will have no manon board.' He paused, dissatisfied. 'The trouble is that it is the kindof story that may not break for two years and then we shall have to putBoot's name before the public all over again. We ought to do somethingnow, while the news is still hot. I gave that illiterate fellowHitchcock a knighthood for less.' For the first time since the questionof the cow had risen to perplex him, Lord Copper smiled. 'We certainlywiped Hitchcock's eye in Ishmaelia.' He paused, and his smile broadenedas he recalled the triumph of ten days ago when the Brute had had toremake their front page at seven in the morning and fill a special lateedition with a palpable fake.

'I don't want to cheapen official honours among the staff,' he said,'but I have a very good mind to give a knighthood to Boot. How does thatstrike you, Salter?'

'You don't think, Lord Copper, that he is rather an inexperiencedman...?'

'No, I don't. And I deplore this grudging attitude in you, Salter. Youshould welcome the success of your subordinates. A knighthood is a verysuitable recognition. It will not cost us a penny. As I say, honours ofthis kind must be distributed with discretion but, properly used, theygive a proper air of authority to the paper.'

'It will mean an increase of salary.'

'He shall have it. And he shall have a banquet. Send my social secretaryto me. I will make the arrangements at once.'

****

No. 10 Downing Street was understaffed; the principal private secretarywas in Scotland; the second secretary was on the Lido; Parliament was invacation but there was no rest for the Prime Minister; he was obliged tomuddle along, as best he could, with his third and fourthsecretaries--unreliable young men related to his wife.

'Another name for the K.C.B.s,' he said petulantly. 'Boot--gratis.'

'Yes, Uncle Mervyn. Are you--we giving any particular reason?'

'It's someone of Copper's. Call it "Services to Literature". It's sometime since Copper asked for anything--I was getting nervous. I'll sendhim a personal note to tell him it is all right. You might drop a lineto Boot.'

'O.K. Uncle.'

****

Later this secretary said to his less important colleague:

'More birthdayers. Boot--writer. Do you know anything about him?'

'Yes, he's always lunching with Aunt Agnes. Smutty novels.'

'Well, write, and tell him he's fixed up, will you?'

****

Two days later, among his bills, John Courteney Boot found forwarded tohim a letter which said:

'I am instructed by the Prime Minister to inform you that your name hasbeen forwarded to H.M. the King with the recommendation for yourinclusion in the Order of Knights Commanders of the Bath.'

'Golly,' said Boot. 'It must be Julia.'

Mrs Stitch was staying in the same house. He went and sat on her bedwhile she had breakfast. Presently he said:

'By the way, what d'you think? They're making me a Knight.'

'Who are?'

'The King and the Prime Minister. You know... a real Knight... SirJohn Boot, I mean.'

'Well...'

'Is it your doing?'

'Well... I hardly know what to say, John. Are you pleased aboutit?'

'It's hard to say yet... taken by surprise. But I think I am...In fact I know I am... Come to think of it, I'm very pleased indeed.'

'Good,' said Mrs Stitch. 'I'm very pleased too,' and added, 'I suppose Idid have something to do with it.'

'It was angelic of you. But why?'

'Just the Stitch service. I felt you had been disappointed about thatjob on the newspaper.'

****

Later, when Algernon Stitch came back from a day with the partridges,she said:

'Algie. What's come over your Prime Minister? He's making John aKnight.'

'John Gassoway? Oh, well, he's had his tongue hanging out for somethingever since we got in.'

'No. John Boot.'

It was not often that Algernon Stitch showed surprise. He did then.

'Boot,' he said. 'Good God,' and added after a long pause. 'Overwork.Breaking up. Pity.'

****

John Boot was not sure whether to make a joke of it. He extended hisconfidence to a Lady Greenidge and a Miss Montesquieu. By dinner timethe house was buzzing with the news. There was no doubt in anyone else'smind whether it was a joke or not.

****

'Anything to declare?'

'Nothing.'

'What, not with all this?'

'I bought it in London in June.'

'All of it?'

'More. There was a canoe...'

The customs officer laid hands on the nearest of the crates which layconspicuously among the hand-luggage of returning holiday-makers. Thenhe read the label and his manner changed.

'Forgive me asking, sir, but are you by any chance Mr Boot of theBeast?'

'Yes, I suppose I am.'

'Ah. Then I don't think I need trouble you, sir... the missus willbe pleased to hear I've seen you. We've been reading a lot about youlately.'

Everyone seemed to have read about William. From the moment he touchedthe fringe of the English-speaking world in the train de luxe fromMarseilles, William had found himself the object of undisguisedcuriosity. On his way round Paris he had bought a copy of the Beast.The front page was mainly occupied with the preparations of the Ladies'Antarctic Expedition but, inset in the middle, was a framed notice:

BOOT IS BACK

The man who made journalistic history, Boot of the Beast, will tomorrow tell in his own inimitable way the inner story of his meteoric leap to fame. How does it feel to tell the truth to two million registered readers? How does it feel to have risen in a single week to the highest pinnacle of fame? Boot will tell you.

That had been the paper of the day before. At Dover William bought thecurrent issue. There, above a facsimile of his signature and a compositepicture of his passport photograph surcharged on an Ishmaelitelandscape, in the size of type which the Beast reserved for its mostexpensive contributors, stood the promised article.

'Two months ago,' it said, 'when Lord Copper summoned me from my desk in the Beast office, to handle the biggest news story of the century, I had never been to Ishmaelia. I knew little of foreign politics. I was being pitted against the most brilliant brains, the experience, and the learning of the civilized world. I had nothing except my youth, my will to succeed, and what--for want of a better word--I must call my flair. In the two months' battle of wits...'

William could read no more. Overcome with shame he turned towards thetrain. A telegraph boy was loafing about the platform utteringmonotonous, monosyllabic, plaintive, gull-like cries which, in William'sdisturbed mind, sounded like 'Boot. Boot. Boot.' William turned guiltilytowards him; he bore a cardboard notice, stuck, by a felicitous strokeof fancy, into a cleft stick, on which was inscribed in unmistakablecharacters, 'Boot.'

'I'm afraid that must be for me,' said William.

'There's a whole lot of them.'

The train seemed likely to start. William took the telegrams and openedthem in the carriage, under the curious eyes of his fellow travellers.

PERSONALLY GRATIFIED YOUR SAFE RETURN COPPER.

BEAST REPRESENTATIVE WILL MEET YOU VICTORIA STOP PLEASE REPORT HEREIMMEDIATELY YOU RETURN STOP TALK BUSINESS NO ONE SALTER.

WILL YOU ACCEPT FIVE YEAR CONTRACT FIVE THOUSAND YEAR ROVINGCORRESPONDENT EDITOR BRUTE.

PLEASE WIRE AUTHORITY NEGOTIATE BOOK SERIAL CINEMA RIGHTS AUTOBIOGRAPHYPAULS LITERARY AGENCY.

There were others, similarly phrased. William released them, one by oneas he read them, at the open window. The rush of air whirled them acrossthe charred embankment to the fields of stubble and stacked corn beyond.

****

At Victoria it was, once again, William's luggage which betrayed him. Ashe stood among the crates and bundles waiting for a taxi, a very youngman approached him and said, 'I say, please, are you William Boot?' Hehad a pimply, eager face.

'Yes.'

'I'm from the Beast. They sent me to meet you. Mr Salter did.'

'Very kind of him.'

'I expect you would like a drink after your journey.'

'No thank you.'

'Mr Salter said I was to ask you.'

'Very kind of him.'

'I say, please have a drink. Mr Salter said I could put it down asexpenses.'

The young man seemed very eager.

'All right,' said William.

'You wouldn't know me,' said the young man as they walked to the buffet.'I'm Bateson. I've only been on the paper three weeks. This is the firsttime I've charged anything on expenses. In fact it is the first timeI've drawn any money from the Beast at all. I'm "on space", you see.'

'Ah.'

They reached the buffet and Bateson bought some whisky. 'I say,' hesaid, 'would you think it awful cheek if I asked you to do something?'

'What?'

'It's your big story. I've got a first edition of it.' He drew a grubbynewspaper from his pocket. 'Would you sign it for me?'

William signed.

'I say, thanks awfully. I'll get it framed. I've been carrying it aboutever since it appeared--studying it, you know. That's the way they toldme in the Correspondence School. Did you ever take a CorrespondenceSchool?'

'No.'

Bateson looked disappointed. 'Oh dear, aren't they a good thing? They'reterribly expensive.'

'I expect they are a very good thing.'

'You do think so, don't you? I'm a graduate of the Aircastle School. Ipaid fifteen shillings a month and I got a specially recommendeddiploma. That's how I got taken on the Beast. It's a great chance, Iknow. I haven't had anything in the paper yet. But one has to startsometime. It's a great profession, isn't it?'

'Yes, I suppose in a way it is.'

'It must be wonderful to be like you,' said Bateson wistfully. 'At thetop. It's been a great chance my meeting you like this. I could hardlybelieve it when Mr Salter picked me to come. "Go and greet Boot," hesaid. "Give him a drink. Get him here before he signs on with theBrute." You wouldn't want to sign on with the Brute, would you?'

'No.'

'You do think the Beast is the leading paper, don't you? I mean it'sthe greatest chance you can have working for the Beast?'

'Yes.'

'I am glad. You see it's rather depressing sometimes, day after dayand none of one's stories getting printed. I'd like to be a foreigncorrespondent like you. I say, would you think it awful cheek if Ishowed you some of the stuff I write? In my spare time, I do it. Iimagine some big piece of news and then I see how I should handle it.Last night in bed I imagined an actress with her throat cut. Shall Ishow it to you?'

'Please do,' said William, 'some time. But I think we ought to be goingnow.'

'Yes, I suppose we should. But you do think it's a good way of trainingoneself--inventing imaginary news?'

'None better,' said William.

They left the bar. The porter was keeping guard over the baggage.'You'll need two cabs,' he said.

'Yes... Suppose you take the heavy stuff in one, Bateson, I'll followwith my own bags in the other.' He packed the young man in among thetropical equipment. 'Give them to Mr Salter and say I shan't need themany more.'

'But you're coming too?'

'I'm taking the cab behind,' said William.

They drove off down Victoria Street. When Bateson's cab was somedistance ahead, William leant through the window and said, 'I've changedmy mind. Go to Paddington instead.'

There was time before his train to telegraph to Boot Magna. 'Returningtonight William.'

****

'Boot said he didn't want these any more.'

'No,' said Mr Salter, surveying with distaste the heap of travel-worntropical equipment which encumbered his room. 'No, I suppose not. Andwhere is Boot?'

'Just behind.'

'You ought to have stayed with him.'

'I'm sorry, Mr Salter.'

'There's no need for you to wait.'

'All right.'

'Well what are you waiting for?'

'I was wondering, would you think it awful cheek if I asked for asouvenir.'

'Souvenir?'

'Of my meeting with Boot. Could you spare one of those cleft sticks?'

'Take the lot.'

'I say, may I really. I say, thank you ever so much.'

****

'That boy, Bateson. Is he balmy or something?'

'I daresay.'

'What's he doing here?'

'He comes from the Aircastle Correspondence School. They guarantee a jobto all their star pupils. They've a big advertising account with us, sowe sometimes take one of their chaps "on space" for a bit.'

'Well he's lost Boot. I suppose we can fire him now?'

'Surely.'

****

The harvest moon hung, brilliant and immense, over the elm trees. In thelanes around Boot Magna motor-cycles or decrepit cars travelled noisilyhome from the village whist drive; Mr Coggs, the bad character, packedhis pockets for the night's sport; the smell of petrol hung about thehedges but inside the park everything was sweet and still. For a fewfeet ahead the lights of the car shed a feeble, yellow glow; beyond, thewarm land lay white as frost, and, as they emerged from the black tunnelof evergreen around the gates into the open pasture, the drive with itssharply defined ruts, and hollows might have been a strip of the moonitself, a volcanic field cold since the creation.

A few windows were alight; only Uncle Theodore was still up. He openedthe door to William.

'Ah,' he said, 'train late?'

'I don't think so.'

'Ah,' he said. 'We got your telegram.'

'Yes.'

'Had a good time?'

'Yes, fairly.'

'You must tell us all about it tomorrow. Your grandmother will want tohear, I know. Had any dinner?'

'Yes, thank you, on the train.'

'Good. We thought you might. We didn't keep anything hot. Rathershort-handed at the moment. James hasn't been at all well, getting tooold for his work--but there are some biscuits in the dining-room.'

'Thanks very much', said William. 'I don't think I want anything.'

'No. Well I think I'll be going along. Glad you've had such a good time.Don't forget to tell us about it. Can't say I read your articles. Theywere always cut out by the time I got the paper. Nannie Pricedisapproved of them. I must get hold of them, want to read them verymuch...' They were walking upstairs together; they reached thelanding where their ways diverged. William carried his bag to his ownroom and laid it on the bed. Then he went to the window and, stooping,looked out across the moonlit park.

On such a night as this, not four weeks back, the tin roofs ofJacksonburg had lain open to the sky; a three-legged dog had awoken,started from his barrel in Frau Dressler's garden, and all over thetown, in yards and refuse heaps, the pariahs had taken up his cries ofprotest.

****

'Well,' said Mr Salter, 'I've heard from Boot.'

'Any good?'

'No. No good.'

He handed the News Editor the letter that had arrived that morning fromWilliam.

Dear Mr Salter, it ran,

Thank you very much for your letter and the invitation. It is very kind of Lord Copper, please thank him, but if you don't mind I think I won't come to the banquet. You see it is a long way and there is a great deal to do here and I can't make speeches. I have to every now and then for things in the village and they are bad enough--a banquet would be worse.

I hope you got the tent and things. Sorry about the canoe. I gave it to a German, also the Xmas dinner. I still have some of your money left. Do you want it back? Will you tell the other editor that I shall be sending him Lush Places on Wednesday.

Yours ever,
William Boot.

P.S. Sorry. They forgot to post this. Now it's Saturday so you won't get it till Monday.

'You think he's talking turkey with the Brute.'

'If he's not already signed up.'

'Ours is a nasty trade, Salter. No gratitude.'

'No loyalty.'

'I've seen it again and again since I've been in Fleet Street. It'senough to make one cynical.'

'What does Lord Copper say?'

'He doesn't know. For the moment, fortunately, he seems to haveforgotten the whole matter. But he may raise it again at any moment.'

He did, that morning.

'...ah, Salter, I was talking to the Prime Minister last night. Thehonours list will be out on Wednesday. How are the preparations goingfor the Boot banquet? It's on the Thursday, I think.'

'That was the date, Lord Copper.'

'Good. I shall propose the health of our guest of honour. By the way didBoot ever come and see me?'

'Up to a point, Lord Copper.'

'I asked for him.'

'Yes, Lord Copper.'

'Then why was he not brought? Once and for all, Salter, I will not havea barrier erected between me and my staff. I am as accessible to thehumblest'... Lord Copper paused for an emphatic example... 'thehumblest book reviewer as I am to my immediate entourage. I will have nocliques in the Beast, you understand me?'

'Definitely.'

'Then bring Boot here.'

'Yes, Lord Copper.'

It was an inauspicious beginning to Mr Salter's working day; worse wasto come.

That afternoon he was sitting disconsolately in the News Editor's roomwhen they were interrupted by the entry of a young man whose face borethat puffy aspect, born of long hours in the golf-house, which markedmost of the better paid members of the Beast staff on their returnfrom their summer holidays. Destined by his trustees for a career in theHousehold Cavalry, this young man had lately reached the age oftwenty-five and plunged into journalism with a zeal which Mr Salterfound it difficult to understand. He talked to them cheerfully for sometime on matters connected with his handicap. Then he said:

'By the way, I don't know if there's a story in it, but I was stayinglast week with my Aunt Trudie. John Boot was there among otherpeople--you know, the novelist. He'd just got a letter from the King orsomeone like that, saying he was going to be knighted.' The look ofstartled concern on the two editors' faces checked him. 'I see you don'tthink much of it. Oh well, I thought it might be worth mentioning. Youknow. "Youth's Opportunity in New Reign", that kind of thing.'

'John Boot--the novelist.'

'Yes. Rather good--at least I always read him. But it seemed a new linefor the Prime Minister...'

****

'No,' said the Prime Minister with unusual finality.

'No?'

'No. It would be utterly impossible to change the list now. The man hasbeen officially notified. And I could not consider knighting two men ofthe same name on the same day. Just the kind of thing the oppositionwould jump on. Quite rightly. Smacks of jobbery, you know.'

****

'Two Boots.'

'Lord Copper must know.'

'Lord Copper must never know.... There's only one comfort. We haven'tcommitted ourselves to which Boot we are welcoming on Thursday or wherehe's come from.' Mr Salter pointed to the engraved card which hadappeared during the week-end on the desks of all the four-figure men inthe office.

VISCOUNT COPPER
and
the Directors of the Megalopolitan Newspaper Company request the honour of your company at dinner on Wednesday, September 16th, at the Braganza Hotel, to welcome the return of BOOT of THE BEAST

7.45 for 8 o'clock.

'We had a row with the social secretary about that. He said it wasn'tcorrect. Lucky how things turned out.'

'It makes things a little better.'

'A little.'

'Salter, this is a case for personal contact. We've got to sign up thisnew Boot and any other Boot that may be going and one of them has got tobe welcomed home on Thursday. There's only one thing for it, Salter, youmust go down to the country and see Boot. I'll settle with the other.'

'To the country?'

'Yes, tonight.'

'Oh, but I couldn't go tonight.'

'Tomorrow then.'

'You think it is really necessary?'

'Either that, or we must tell Lord Copper the truth.'

Mr Salter shuddered. 'But wouldn't it be better,' he said, 'if youwent to the country?'

'No. I'll see this novelist and get him signed up.'

'And sent away.'

'Or welcomed home. And you will offer the other Boot any reasonableterms to lie low.'

'Any reasonable terms.'

'Salter, old man, what's come over you? You keep repeating things.'

'It's nothing. It's only... travelling... always upsets me.'

He had a cup of strong tea and later rang up the Foreign ContactsAdviser to find out how he could best get to Boot Magna.

Chapter Two

At the outbreak of the war of 1914 Uncle Roderick had declared forretrenchment. 'It's up to all of us who are over military age to do whatwe can. All unnecessary expenses must be cut down.'

'Why?' asked Great-Aunt Anne.

'It is a question of national emergency and patriotism.'

'How will our being uncomfortable hurt the Germans? It's just what theywant.'

'Everything is needed at the front,' explained William's mother.

Discussion had raged for some days; every suggested economy seemed tostrike invidiously at particular members of the household. At last itwas decided to give up the telephone. Aunt Anne sometimes spoke bitterlyof the time when 'my nephew Roderick won the war by cutting me off frommy few surviving friends', but the service had never been renewed. Theantiquated mahogany box still stood at the bottom of the stairs, dustyand silent, and telegrams which arrived in the village after tea weredelivered next day with the morning post. Thus, William found MrSalter's telegram waiting for him on the breakfast table.

His mother, Priscilla, and his three uncles sat round the table. Theyhad finished eating and were sitting there, as they often sat for anhour or so, doing nothing at all. Priscilla alone was occupied, killingcomatose wasps in the honey on her plate.

'There's a telegram for you,' said his mother. 'We were wonderingwhether we ought to open it or send it up to you.'

It said: MUST SEE YOU IMMEDIATELY URGENT BUSINESS ARRIVING BOOT MAGNAHALT TOMORROW AFTERNOON 6.10 SALTER.

The message was passed from hand to hand around the table.

Mrs Boot said, 'Who is Mr Salter, and what urgent business can hepossibly have here?'

Uncle Roderick said, 'He can't stay the night. Nowhere for him tosleep.'

Uncle Bernard said, 'You must telegraph and put him off.'

Uncle Theodore said, 'I knew a chap called Salter once, but I don'tsuppose it's the same one.'

Priscilla said, 'I believe he means to come today. It's datedyesterday.'

'He's the Foreign Editor of the Beast,' William explained. 'The one Itold you about who sent me abroad.'

'He must be a very pushful fellow, inviting himself here like this.Anyway, as Roderick says, we've no room for him.'

'We could send Priscilla to the Caldicotes for the night.'

'I like that,' said Priscilla, adding illogically. 'Why don't you sendWilliam, it's his friend.'

'Yes,' said Mrs Boot, 'Priscilla could go to the Caldicotes.'

'I'm cubbing tomorrow,' said Priscilla, 'right in the other direction.You can't expect Lady Caldicote to send me thirty miles at eight in themorning.'

For over an hour the details of Priscilla's hunt occupied thedining-room. Could she send her horse overnight to a farm near the meet;could she leave the Caldicotes at dawn, pick up her horse at Boot Magna,and ride on; could she borrow Major Watkins' trailer and take her horseto the Caldicotes for the night, then as far as Major Watkins's in themorning and ride on from there; if she got the family car from Aunt Anneand Major Watkins' trailer, would Lady Caldicote lend her a car to takeit to Major Watkins's, would Aunt Anne allow the car to stay the night;would she discover it was taken without her permission? They discussedthe question exhaustively, from every angle; Troutbeck twice glowered atthem from the door and finally began to clear the table; Mr Salter andthe object of his visit were not mentioned.

****

That evening, some time after the advertised hour, Mr Salter alighted atBoot Magna Halt. An hour earlier, at Taunton, he had left the express,and changed into a train such as he did not know existed outside theimagination of his Balkan correspondents; a single tram-like, one-classcoach, which had pottered in a desultory fashion through a system ofnarrow, under-populated valleys. It had stopped eight times, and atevery station there had been a bustle of passengers succeeded by a long,silent pause, before it started again; men had entered who, instead ofslinking and shuffling and wriggling themselves into corners anddecently screening themselves behind newspapers, as civilized peopleshould when they travelled by train, had sat down squarely quite closeto Mr Salter, rested their hands on their knees, stared at him fixedlyand uncritically and suddenly addressed him on the subject of theweather in barely intelligible accents; there had been very old,unhygienic men and women, such as you never saw in the Underground, whoought long ago to have been put away in some public institution; therehad been women carrying a multitude of atrocious little baskets andparcels which they piled on the seats; one of them had put a hampercontaining a live turkey under Mr Salter's feet. It had been a horriblejourney.

At last, with relief, Mr Salter alighted. He lifted his suitcase fromamong the sinister bundles on the rack and carried it to the centre ofthe platform. There was no one else for Boot Magna. Mr Salter had hopedto find William waiting to meet him, but the little station was emptyexcept for a single porter who was leaning against the cab of the engineengaged in a kind of mute, telepathetic converse with the driver, and acretinous native youth who stood on the further side of the paling,leant against it and picked at the dry paint-bubbles with a toe-likethumb nail. When Mr Salter looked at him, he glanced away and grinnedwickedly at his boots.

The train observed its customary two minutes silence and then steamedslowly away. The porter shuffled across the line and disappeared into ahut labelled 'Lamps'. Mr Salter turned towards the palings; the youthwas still leaning there, gazing; his eye dropped; he grinned. Threetimes, shuttlecock fashion, they alternately glanced up and down till MrSalter with urban impatience tired of the flirtation and spoke up.

'I say.'

'Ur.'

'Do you happen to know whether Mr Boot has sent a car for me?'

'Ur.'

'He has?'

'Noa. She've a taken of the harse.'

'I am afraid you misunderstand me.' Mr Salter's voice sounded curiouslyflutey and querulous in contrast to the deep tones of the moron. 'I'mcoming to visit Mr Boot. I wondered if he had sent a motor-car for me.'

'He've a sent me.'

'With the car?'

'Noa. Motor-car's over to Lady Caldicote's taking of the harse. Thebay,' he explained, since Mr Salter seemed not to be satisfied with thisanswer. 'Had to be the bay for because the mare's sick... The oldbay's not up yet,' he added as though to make everything perfectlyclear.

'Well how am I to get to the house?'

'Why, along of me and Bert Tyler.'

'Has this Mr Tyler got a car then?'

'Noa. I tell e car's over to Lady Caldicote's along of Miss Priscillaand the bay... Had to be the bay,' he persisted, 'because for themare's sick.'

'Yes, yes, I quite appreciate that.'

'And the old bay's still swole up with grass. So you'm to ride along ofwe.'

'Ride?' A hideous vision rose before Mr Salter.

'Ur. Along of me and Bert Tyler and the slag.'

'Slag?'

'Ur. Mr Roderick's getting in the slag now for to slag Westerheys. Takesa tidy bit.'

Mr Salter was suffused with relief. 'You mean that you have some kind ofvehicle outside full of slag?'

'Ur. Cheaper now than what it will be when Mr Roderick wants it.'

Mr Salter descended the steps into the yard where, out of sight from theplatform, an open lorry was standing; an old man next to the drivingseat touched his cap; the truck was loaded high with sacks; bonnet andback bore battered learner plates. The youth took Mr Salter's suitcaseand heaved it up among the slag. 'You'm to ride behind,' he said.

'If it's all the same to you,' said Mr Salter rather sharply, 'I shouldprefer to sit in front.'

'It's all the same to me, but I dursn't let you. The police would haveI.'

'Good gracious, why?'

'Bert Tyler have to ride along of me, for because of the testers.'

'Testers?'

'Ur. Police don't allow for me to drive except along of Bert Tyler. BertTyler he've a had a licence twenty year. There weren't no testers forBert Tyler. But police they took and tested I over to Taunton.'

'And you failed?'

A great grin spread over the young man's face. 'I busted tester's legfor he,' he said proudly. 'Ran he bang into the wall, going a fairlick.'

'Oh dear. Wouldn't it be better for your friend Tyler to drive us?'

'Noa. He can't see for to drive, Bert Tyler can't. Don't e be afeared. Ican see right. It be the corners do for I.'

'And are there many corners between here and the house?'

'Tidy few.'

Mr Salter, who had had his foot on the hub of the wheel preparatory tomounting, now drew back. His nerve, never strong, had been severelytried that afternoon; now it failed him.

'I'll walk,' he said. 'How far is it?'

'Well, it's all according as you know the way. We do call it three mileover the fields. It's a tidy step by the road.'

'Perhaps you'll be good enough to show me the field path.'

''Tain't exactly what you could call a path. 'E just keeps straight.'

'Well I daresay I shall find it. If... if by any chance you get tothe house before me will you tell Mr Boot that I wanted a littleexercise after the journey?'

The learner-driver looked at Mr Salter with undisguised contempt. 'I'lltell e as you was afeared to ride along of me and Bert Tyler,' he said.

Mr Salter stepped back into the station porch to avoid the dust as thelorry drove away. It was as well that he did so, for, as he mounted theincline, the driver mistakenly changed into reverse and the machinecharged precipitately back in its tracks, and came noisily to restagainst the wall where Mr Salter had been standing. The second attemptwas more successful and it reached the lane with no worse damage than amudguard crushed against the near gatepost.

Then with rapid, uncertain steps Mr Salter set out on his walk to thehouse.

****

It was eight o'clock when Mr Salter arrived at the front door. He hadcovered a good six miles tacking from field to field under the settingsun; he had scrambled through fences and ditches; in one enormouspasture a herd of cattle had closed silently in on him and followed athis heels--the nearest not a yard away--with lowered heads and heavybreath; Mr Salter had broken into a run and they had trotted after him;when he gained the stile and turned to face them, they began gentlygrazing in his tracks; dogs had flown at him in three farmyards where hehad stopped to ask the way, and to be misdirected; at last, when he felthe could go no further but must lie down and perish from exposure underthe open sky, he had tumbled through an overgrown stile to find himselfin the main road with the lodge gates straight ahead; the last mile upthe drive had been the bitterest of all.

And now he stood under the porch, sweating, blistered, nettle-stung,breathless, parched, dizzy, dead-beat and dishevelled, with his bowlerhat in one hand and umbrella in the other, leaning against a stuccopillar waiting for someone to open the door. Nobody came. He pulledagain at the bell; there was no responsive spring, no echo in the hallbeyond. No sound broke the peace of the evening save, in the elms thatstood cumbrously on every side, the crying of the rooks and, not unlikeit but nearer at hand, directly it seemed over Mr Salter's head, astrong baritone decanting irregular snatches of sacred music.

'In Thy courts no more are needed, sun by day nor moon by night,' sangUncle Theodore blithely, stepping into his evening trousers; heremembered it as a treble solo rising to the dim vaults of the schoolchapel, touching the toughest adolescent hearts; he remembered itimperfectly but with deep emotion.

Mr Salter listened, unmoved. In despair he began to pound the front doorwith his umbrella. The singing ceased and the voice in fruity, moreprosaic tones demanded, 'What, ho, without there?'

Mr Salter hobbled down the steps, clear of the porch, and saw framed inthe ivy of a first-floor window, a ruddy, Hanoverian face and plump,bare torso. 'Good-evening,' he said politely.

'Good-evening.' Uncle Theodore leaned out as far as he safely could andstared at Mr Salter through a monocle. 'From where you are standing,' hesaid, 'you might easily take me to be totally undraped. Let me hasten toassure you that such is not the case. Seemly black shrouds me from thewaist down. No doubt you are the friend my nephew William is expecting.'

'Yes... I've been ringing the bell.'

'It sounded to me,' said Uncle Theodore severely, 'as though you werehammering the door with a stick.'

'Yes, I was. You see...'

'You'll be late for dinner, you know, if you stand out there kicking upa rumpus. And so shall I if I stay talking to you. We will meet againshortly in more conventional circumstances. For the moment--ariverderci.'

The head withdrew and once more the melody rose into the twilight,mounted to the encircling tree-tops and joined the chorus of the homingrooks.

Mr Salter tried the handle of the door. It opened easily. Never in hislife had he made his own way into anyone else's house. Now he did so andfound himself in a lobby cluttered with implements of sport, overcoats,rugs, a bicycle or two and a stuffed bear. Beyond it, glass doors ledinto the hall. He was dimly aware of a shadowy double staircase whichrose and spread before him, of a large, carpetless chequer of black andwhite marble paving, of islands of furniture and some potted palms.Quite near the glass doors stood a little armchair where no one eversat; there Mr Salter sank and there he was found twenty minutes later byWilliam's mother when she came down to dinner. His last action before helapsed into coma had been to remove his shoes.

Mrs Boot surveyed the figure with some distaste and went on her way tothe drawing-room. It was one of the days when James was on his feet; shecould hear him next door rattling the silver on the dining-room table.'James,' she called, through the double doors.

'Yes, madam.'

'Mr William's friend has arrived. I think perhaps he would like towash.'

'Very good, madam.'

Mr Salter was not really asleep; he had been aware, remotely andimpersonally, of Mrs Boot's scrutiny; he was aware, now, of James's slowpassage across the hall.

'Dinner will be in directly, sir. May I take you to your room?'

For a moment Mr Salter thought he would be unable ever to move again;then, painfully, he rose to his feet. He observed his discarded shoes;so did James; neither of them felt disposed to stoop; each respected theother's feeling; Mr Salter padded upstairs beside the footman.

'I regret to say, sir, that your luggage is not yet available. Three ofthe outside men are delving for it at the moment.'

'Delving?'

'Assiduously, sir. It was inundated with slag at the time of theaccident.'

'Accident?'

'Yes, sir, there has been a misadventure to the farm lorry that wasconveying it from the station; we attribute it to the driver'sinexperience. He overturned the vehicle in the back drive.'

'Was he hurt?'

'Oh, yes, sir; gravely. Here is your room, sir.'

An oil lamp, surrounded by moths and autumnal beetles, burned onPriscilla's dressing-table illuminating a homely, girlish room. Littlehad been done beyond the removal of loofah and nightdress, to adapt itfor male occupation. Twenty or thirty china animals stood on bracketsand shelves, together with slots of deer, brushes of foxes, pads ofotters, a horse's hoof, and other animal trophies; a low, bronchialgrowl came from under the bed.

'Miss Priscilla hoped you would not object to taking charge of Amabelfor the night, sir. She's getting an old dog now and doesn't like to bemoved. You'll find her perfectly quiet and good. If she barks in thenight, it is best to feed her.'

James indicated two saucers of milk and minced meat which stood on thebed table that had already attracted Mr Salter's attention.

'Would that be all, sir?'

'Thank you,' said Mr Salter, weakly.

James left, gently closing the door which, owing to a long standingdefect in its catch, as gently swung open again behind him.

Mr Salter poured some warm water into the prettily flowered basin on thewash-hand stand.

James returned. 'I omitted to tell you, sir, the lavatory on this flooris out of order. The gentlemen use the one opening on the library.'

'Thank you.'

James repeated the pantomime of shutting the door.

****

Nurse Granger was always first down in the drawing-room. Dinner wassupposed to be at quarter-past eight, and for fifteen years she had beenon time. She was sitting there, stitching a wool mat of modernisticdesign, when Mrs Boot first entered. When Mrs Boot had given her orderto James, she smiled at her and said, 'How is your patient tonight,nurse?' and Nurse Granger answered as she had answered nightly forfifteen years, 'A little low-spirited.'

'Yes,' said Mrs Boot, 'she gets low-spirited in the evenings.'

The two women sat in silence, Nurse Granger snipping and tugging at themagenta wool; Mrs Boot reading a gardening magazine to which shesubscribed. It was not until Lady Trilby entered the room that sheexpressed her forebodings.

'The boys are late,' said Lady Trilby.

'William's friend,' said Mrs Boot gravely, 'has arrived in a mostpeculiar condition.'

'I know. I watched him come up the drive. Reelin' all over the shop.'

'He let himself in and went straight off to sleep in the hall.'

'Best thing for him.'

'You mean... You don't think he could have been...?'

'The man was squiffy,' said Aunt Anne. 'It was written all over him.'

Nurse Granger uttered a knowing little cluck of disapproval.

'It's lucky Priscilla isn't here. What had we better do?'

'The boys will see to him.'

'Here is Theodore. I will ask him at once. Theodore, William's friendfrom London has arrived and Aunt Anne and I very much fear that he hastaken too much.'

'Has he, by Jove?' said Uncle Theodore rather enviously. 'Now youmention it, I shouldn't be at all surprised. I talked to the fellow outof my window. He was pounding the front door fit to knock it in.'

'What ought we to do?'

'Oh, he'll sober up,' said Uncle Theodore from deep experience. UncleRoderick joined them. 'I say Rod, what d'you think? That journalistfellow of William's--he's sozzled.'

'Disgusting. Is he fit to come in to dinner?'

'We'd better keep an eye on him to see he doesn't get any more.'

'Yes. I'll tell James.'

Uncle Bernard joined the family circle. 'Good-evening, good-evening,' hesaid in his courtly fashion. 'I'm nearly the last I see.'

'Bernard, we have something to tell you.'

'And I have something to tell you. I was sitting in the library nottwo minutes ago when a dirty little man came prowling in--without anyshoes on.'

'Was he tipsy?'

'I dare say... now you mention it, I think he was.'

'That's William's friend.'

'Well he should be taken care of. Where is William?'

****

William was playing dominoes with Nannie Bloggs. It was this custom ofplaying dominoes with her from six till seven every evening, which hadprevented him meeting Mr Salter at the station. On this particularevening the game had been prolonged far beyond its usual limit. Threetimes he had attempted to leave, but the old woman was inflexible. 'Justyou stay where you sit,' she said. 'You always were a headstrong,selfish boy. Worse than your Uncle Theodore. Gallivanting about all overAfrica with a lot of heathens, and now you are home you don't want tospend a few minutes with your old Nannie.'

'But, nannie, I've got a guest arriving.'

'Guest. Time enough for him. It's not you he's after I'll be bound.It's my pretty Priscilla. You leave them be... I'll make it half asovereign this time.'

Not until the gong sounded for dinner would she let him go. 'Change yourclothes quickly. Wash your hands,' she said, 'and brush your hairnicely. And mind you bring Priscilla's young man up afterwards and we'llhave a nice game of cards. It's thirty-three shillings you owe me.'

****

Mr Salter had no opportunity of talking business at dinner. He satbetween Mrs Boot and Lady Trilby; never an exuberant man, he now feltsubdued almost to extinction and took his place glumly between the twoformidable ladies; he might feel a little stronger, he hoped, after aglass of wine.

James moved heavily round the table with the decanters; claret for theladies, William and Uncle Bernard, whisky and water for Uncle Theodore,medicated cider for Uncle Roderick. 'Water, sir?' said a voice in MrSalter's ear.

'Well, I think perhaps I would sooner...' A clear and chillingcascade fell into his tumbler and James returned to the sideboard.

William, noticing a little shudder pass over his guest, leaned forwardacross the table. 'I say, Salter, haven't they given you anything todrink?'

'Well, as a matter of fact...'

Mrs Boot frowned at her son--a frown like a sudden spasm of pain. 'MrSalter prefers water.'

'Nothing like it,' said Uncle Theodore. 'I respect him for it.'

'Well, as a matter of fact...'

Both ladies addressed him urgently and simultaneously: 'You're a greatwalker, Mr Salter,' in challenging tones from Lady Trilby; 'It is quitea treat for you to get away from your work into the country,' moregently from Mrs Boot. By the time that Mr Salter had dealt civilly withthese two mis-statements, the subject of wine was closed.

Dinner was protracted for nearly an hour, but not by reason of any greatprofusion or variety of food. It was rather a bad dinner; scarcelybetter than he would have got at Lord Copper's infamous table; greatlyinferior to the daintily garnished little dishes which he enjoyed athome. In course of time each member of the Boot family had evolved anindividual style of eating; before each plate was ranged a little storeof seasonings and delicacies, all marked with their owner'sinitials--onion salt, Bombay duck, gherkins, garlic vinegar, Dijonmustard, pea-nut butter, icing sugar, varieties of biscuit from Bath andTunbridge Wells, Parmesan cheese, and a dozen other jars and bottles andtins mingled incongruously with the heavy, Georgian silver; UncleTheodore had a little spirit lamp and chafing dish with which heconcocted a sauce. The dishes as sent in from the kitchen were ratherthe elementary materials of dinner than the dinner itself. Mr Salterfound them correspondingly dull and unconscionably slow in coming.Conversation was general and intermittent.

Like foreign news bulletins, Boot family table talk took the form ofantithetical statement rather than of free discussion.

'Priscilla took Amabel with her to the Caldicotes,' said Lady Trilby.

'She left her behind,' said Mrs Boot.

'A dirty old dog,' said Uncle Bernard.

'Too old to go visiting,' said Uncle Roderick.

'Too dirty.'

'Mr Salter is having Amabel to sleep with him,' said Mrs Boot.

'Mr Salter is very fond of her,' said Lady Trilby.

'He doesn't know her,' said Uncle Bernard.

'He's very fond of all dogs,' said Mrs Boot.

There was a pause in which James announced: 'If you please, madam, themen have sent up to say it is too dark to go on moving the slag.'

'Very awkward,' said Uncle Roderick. 'Blocks the back drive.'

'And Mr Salter will have no things for the night,' said Mrs Boot.

'William will lend him some.'

'Mr Salter will not mind. He will understand.'

'But he is sorry to have lost his things.'

****

Presently Mr Salter got the hang of it. 'It is a long way from thestation,' he ventured.

'You stopped on the way.'

'Yes, to ask... I was lost.'

'You stopped several times.'

****

At last dinner came to an end.

'He got better towards the end of dinner,' said Lady Trilby in thedrawing-room.

'He is practically himself again,' said Mrs Boot.

'Roderick will see that he does not get at the port.'

****

'You won't take port,' said Uncle Roderick.

'Well, as a matter of fact...'

'Push it round to Bernard, there's a good fellow.'

'You and William have business to discuss.'

'Yes,' said Mr Salter eagerly. 'Yes, it's most important.'

'You could go to the library.'

'Yes.'

William led his guest from the table and out of the room.

'Common little fellow,' said Uncle Roderick.

'It's a perfectly good name,' said Uncle Bernard. 'An early corruptionof saltire, which no doubt he bears on his coat. But of course it mayhave been assumed irregularly.'

'Can't hold it,' said Uncle Theodore.

'I always understood that the true Salters became extinct in thefifteenth century...'

****

In the library William for the first time had the chance of apologisingfor the neglect of his guest.

'Of course, of course. I quite understand that living where you do, youare naturally distracted... I would not have intruded on you for theworld. But it was a matter of first-rate importance--of Lord Copper'spersonal wishes, you understand.

'There are two things. First, your contract with us, Boot,' said MrSalter earnestly, 'you won't desert the ship?'

'Eh?'

'I mean it was the Beast that gave you your chance. You mustn't forgetthat?'

'No.'

'I suppose the Brute have made a very attractive offer. But believeme, Boot, I've known Fleet Street longer than you have. I've seenseveral men transfer from us to them. They thought they were going to bebetter off but they weren't. It's no life for a man of individuality,working for the Brute. You'd be selling your soul, Boot.... Youhaven't, by the way, sold it?'

'No. They did send me a telegram. But to tell you the truth I was soglad to be home that I forgot to answer it.'

'Thank heaven. I've got a contract here, ready drawn up. Duplicatecopies. They only need your signature. Luckily I did not pack them in mysuitcase. A life contract for two thousand a year. Will you sign?'

William signed. He and Mr Salter each folded his copy and put it in hispocket; each with a feeling of deep satisfaction.

'And then there's the question of the banquet. There won't be anydifficulty about that now. I quite understand that while the Bruteoffer was still in the air... Well I'm delighted it's settled. Youhad better come up with me tomorrow morning. Lord Copper may want to seeyou beforehand.'

'No.'

'But, my dear Boot... You need have no worry about your speech. Thatis being written for you by Lord Copper's social secretary. It will bequite simple. Five minutes or so in praise of Lord Copper.'

'No.'

'The banquet will be widely reported. There may even be a film made ofit.'

'No.'

'Really Boot I can't understand you at all.'

'Well,' said William with difficulty, 'I should feel an ass.'

'Yes,' said Mr Salter, 'I can understand that. But it's only for oneevening.'

'I've felt an ass for weeks. Ever since I went to London. I've beentreated like an ass.'

'Yes,' said Mr Salter sadly. 'That's what we are paid for.'

'It's one thing being an ass in Africa. But if I go to this banquet theymay learn about it down here.'

'No doubt they would.'

'Nannie Bloggs and Nannie Price and everyone.'

Mr Salter was not in fighting form and he knew it. The strength was goneout of him. He was dirty and blistered and aching in every limb, coldsober and unsuitably dressed. He was in a strange country. These peoplewere not his people nor their laws his. He felt like a Roman legionary,heavily armed, weighted with the steel and cast brass of civilization,tramping through forests beyond the Roman pale, harassed by silent,illusive savages, the vanguard of an advance that had pushed too far andlost touch with the base... or was he the abandoned rearguard of aretreat? Had the legions sailed?

'I think,' he said, 'I'd better ring up the office and ask theiradvice.'

'You can't do that,' said William cheerfully. 'The nearest telephone isthree miles away; there's no car; and anyway it shuts at seven.'

Silence fell in the library. Once more Mr Salter rallied to the attack.He tried sarcasm.

'These ladies you mention; no doubt they are estimable people, butsurely, my dear Boot, you will admit that Lord Copper is a little moreimportant.'

'No,' said William gravely. 'Not down here.'

****

They were still sitting in silence when ten minutes later Troutbeck cameto them.

'Miss Bloggs says she is expecting you upstairs to play cards.'

'You don't mind?' William asked.

Mr Salter was past minding anything. He was led upstairs, down longlamp-lit corridors, through doors of faded baize to Nannie Bloggs'sroom. Uncle Theodore was already there arranging the card table besideher bed. 'So this is him,' she said. 'Why hasn't he got any shoes?'

'It's a long story,' said William.

The beady old eyes studied Mr Salter's careworn face; she put on herspectacles and looked again. 'Too old,' she said.

Coming from whom it did, this criticism seemed a bit thick; even in hisdepressed condition, Mr Salter was roused to resentment. 'Too old forwhat?' he asked sharply.

Nannie Bloggs, though hard as agate about matters of money and theology,had, in old age, a soft spot for a lover. 'There, there, dearie,' shesaid. 'I don't mean anything. There's many a young heart beats in an oldbody. Sit down. Cut the cards, Mr Theodore. You've had a disappointmentI know, her being away. She always was a contrary girl. The harder thewooing the sweeter the winning, they say--two spades--and there's many ahappy marriage between April and December--don't go peeping over myhand, Mr Theodore--and she's a good girl at heart, though she doesforget her neck sometimes--three spades--comes out of the bath just asblack as she went in, I don't know what she does there...'

They played three rubbers and Mr Salter lost twenty-two shillings. Asthey rose to leave, Nannie Bloggs, who had from long habit kept up amore or less continuous monologue during the course of the game said,'Don't give up, dearie. If it wasn't that your hair was thinning youmightn't be more than thirty-five. She doesn't know her own mind yet andthat's the truth.'

They left. William and Uncle Theodore accompanied Mr Salter to his room.William said 'Goodnight.' Uncle Theodore lingered.

'Pity you doubled our hearts,' he said.

'Yes.'

'Got you down badly.'

'Yes.'

A single candle stood on the table by the bed. In its light Mr Saltersaw a suit of borrowed pyjamas laid out. Sleep was coming on him like avast, pea-soup fog, rolling down Fleet Street from Ludgate Hill. He didnot want to discuss their game of bridge.

'We had all the cards,' said Uncle Theodore magnanimously, sitting downon the bed.

'Yes.'

'I expect you keep pretty late hours in London.'

'Yes... no... that is to say, sometimes.'

'Hard to get used to country hours. I don't suppose you feel a bitsleepy.'

'Well, as a matter of fact...'

'When I lived in London,' began Uncle Theodore...

****

The candle burned low.

****

'Funny thing that...'

Mr Salter awoke with a start. He was sitting in Priscilla'schintz-covered armchair; Uncle Theodore was still on the bed, recliningnow like a surfeited knight of the age of Heliogabalus...

'Of course you couldn't print it. But I've quite a number of stories youcould print. Hundreds of 'em. I was wondering if it was the kind ofthing your newspaper...'

'Quite outside my province, I'm afraid. You see, I'm the ForeignEditor.'

'Half of them deal with Paris; more than half. For instance...'

'I should love to hear them, all of them, sometime, later, not now...'

'You pay very handsomely, I believe, on the Beast.'

'Yes.'

'Now suppose I was to write a series of articles...'

'Mr Boot,' said Mr Salter desperately. 'Let us discuss it in themorning.'

'I'm never in my best form in the morning,' said Uncle Theodoredoubtfully. 'Now after dinner I can talk quite happily until anytime.'

'Come to London. See the Features Editor.'

'Yes,' said Uncle Theodore. 'I will. But I don't want to shock him; Ishould like your opinion first.'

The mists rose in Mr Salter's brain; a word or two loomed up and waslost again... 'Willis's rooms... "Pussy" Gresham... Romano's...believe it or not fifteen thousand pounds...' Then all was silence.

When Mr Salter awoke he was cold and stiff and fully dressed except forhis shoes; the candle was burned out. Autumn dawn glimmered in thewindow and Priscilla Boot, in riding habit, was ransacking the wardrobefor a lost tie.

****

The Managing Editor of the Beast was not easily moved to pity. 'I say,Salter,' he said, almost reverently, 'you look terrible.'

'Yes,' said Mr Salter lowering himself awkwardly into a chair, 'that'sthe only word for it.'

'These heavy drinking country squires, eh?'

'No. It wasn't that.'

'Have you got Boot?'

'Yes and no. Have you?'

'Yes and no. He signed all right.'

'So did mine. But he won't come to the banquet.'

'I've sent my Boot off to the Antarctic. He said he had to go abroadat once. Apparently some woman is pursuing him.'

'My Boot,' said Mr Salter, 'is afraid of losing the esteem of his oldnurse.'

'Women,' said the managing editor.

One thought was in both men's mind. 'What are we going to say to LordCopper?'

The social secretary, whom they went to consult, was far from helpful.

'Lord Copper is looking forward very much to his speech,' she said. 'Hehas been rehearsing it all the afternoon.'

'You could rewrite it a little,' said the managing editor.

'"Even in the moment of triumph, duty called. Here today, gonetomorrow... honouring the empty chair... the high adventure of modernjournalism..."' But even as he spoke, his voice faltered.

'No,' said the social secretary. 'That is not the kind of speech LordCopper intends to make. You can hear him, in there, now.' A dull boomingsound, like breakers on shingle rose and fell beyond the veneered walnutdoors. 'He's getting it by heart,' she added.

The two editors went sadly back to their own quarters.

'I've worked with the Megalopolitan, one way and another, for fifteenyears,' said Mr Salter. 'I've got a wife to consider.'

'You at least might get other employment,' said the managing editor.'You've been educated. There's nothing in the world I'm fit to do exceptedit the Beast.'

'It was your fault in the first place for engaging Boot at all. Hewasn't a foreign page man.'

'You sent him to Ishmaelia.'

'I wanted to sack him. You made him a hero. You made an ass ofhim. It was you who thought of that article which upset him.'

'You encouraged Lord Copper to give him a knighthood.'

'You encouraged the banquet.'

'We were both at fault,' said the managing editor. 'But there's no pointin our both suffering. Let's toss for who takes the blame.'

The coin spun in the air, fell and rolled away out of sight.

'A Boot, a Boot, my kingdom for a Boot'.

Mr Salter was on his knees, searching, when the Features Editor lookedin.

'Do either of you know anything about an old chap called Boot?' heasked. 'I can't get him out of my room. He's been sitting there tellingme dirty stories since I got back from lunch. Says Salter sent for him.'

'Saved.'

'Bring him in.'

'And bring a contract form with him.'

And Uncle Theodore was led in, shedding Edwardian light and warmth inthat dingy room.

Chapter Three

Lord Copper quite often gave banquets; it would be an understatement tosay that no one enjoyed them more than the host for no one else enjoyedthem at all, while Lord Copper positively exulted in every minute. Forhim they satisfied every requirement of a happy evening's entertainment;like everything that was to Lord Copper's taste, they were unduly largeand unduly long; they took place in restaurants which existed solely forsuch purposes, amid decorations which reminded Lord Copper of hisexecrable country seat at East Finchley; the provisions were copious,very bad and very expensive; the guests were assembled for no otherreason than that Lord Copper had ordered it; they did not want to seeone another; they had no reason to rejoice in the occasions which LordCopper celebrated; they were there either because it was part of theirjob or because they were glad of a free dinner. Many were already onLord Copper's pay-roll and they thus found their working day prolongedby some three hours without recompense--with the forfeit, indeed, of theconsiderable expenses of dressing up, coming out at night, and missingthe last train home; those who were normally the slaves of other masterswere, Lord Copper felt, his for the evening. He had bought them andbound them, hand and foot, with consommé and cream of chicken, turbotand saddle, duck and pêche melba, and afterwards when the cigars hadbeen furtively pocketed and the brandy glasses filled with the horriblebrown compound for which Lord Copper was paying two pounds a bottle,there came the golden hour when he rose to speak at whatever length heliked and on whatever subject, without fear or rivalry or interruption.

Often the occasion was purely contingent on Lord Copper'sactivities--some reshuffling of directorships, an amalgamation ofsubsidiary companies, or an issue of new stocks; sometimes someexhausted and resentful celebrity whom the Beast had adopted, sat onLord Copper's right hand as the guest of honour, and there, on thisparticular evening, at half-past eight, sat Mr Theodore Boot; he hadtucked up his coat tails behind him, spread his napkin across his kneesand unlike any of Lord Copper's guests of honour before or since, wassettling down to enjoy himself.

'Don't think I've ever been to this place before,' he began.

'No,' said Lord Copper. 'No, I suppose not. It is, I believe, the bestplace of its kind.'

'Since my time,' said Uncle Theodore tolerantly. 'New places alwaysspringing up. Other places closing down. The old order changeth, eh?'

'Yes,' said Lord Copper coldly.

It was not thus that he was accustomed to converse with juniorreporters, however promising. There was a type, Lord Copper had learned,who became presumptuous under encouragement. Uncle Theodore, it wastrue, did not seem to belong to this type; it was hard to know exactlywhat type Uncle Theodore did belong to.

Lord Copper turned away rather petulantly and engaged his otherneighbour--a forgotten and impoverished ex-Viceroy who for want of otherinvitations spent three or four evenings a week at dinners of thiskind--but his mind was not in the conversation; it was disturbed. It hadbeen disturbed all the evening, ever since, sharp on time, he had madehis entrance to the inner reception room where the distinguished guestswere segregated. Uncle Theodore had been standing there between MrSalter and the managing editor. He wore a tail coat of obsolete cut, ablack waistcoat, and a very tall collar; his purplish patrician face hadbeamed on Lord Copper, but there had been no answering cordiality inLord Copper's greeting. Boot was a surprise. Images were not easilyformed or retained in Lord Copper's mind but he had had quite a clearimage of Boot and Uncle Theodore did not conform to it. Was this MrsStitch's protégé? Was this the youngest K.C.B.? Had Lady Cockpursecommended this man's style? And--it gradually came back to him--wasthis the man he had himself met not two months back, and speeded on histrip to Ishmaelia? Lord Copper took another look and encountered a smileso urbane, so patronizing, so intolerably knowing, that he hastilyturned away.

Someone had blundered.

Lord Copper turned to the secretary, who stood with the toast masterbehind his chair.

'Wagstaff.'

'Yes, Lord Copper.'

'Take a memo for tomorrow. "See Salter".'

'Very good, Lord Copper.'

The banquet must go on, thought Lord Copper.

****

The banquet went on.

The general hum of conversation was becoming louder. It was a notedearer to Lord Copper than the tongue of hounds in covert. He tried toclose his mind to the enigmatic and, he was inclined to suspect,obnoxious presence on his right. He heard the unctuous voice rising andfalling, breaking now and then into a throaty chuckle. Uncle Theodore,after touching infelicitously on a variety of topics, had found commonground with the distinguished guest on his right; they had both, inanother age, known a man named Bertie Wodehouse-Bonner.

Uncle Theodore enjoyed his recollection and he enjoyed his champagne butpoliteness at last compelled him reluctantly to address Lord Copper--adull dog, but his host.

He leant nearer to him and spoke in a confidential manner.

'Tell me,' he asked, 'where does one go on to nowadays?'

'I beg your pardon.'

Uncle Theodore leered. 'You know. To round off the evening?'

'Personally,' said Lord Copper, 'I intend to go to bed without anydelay.'

'Exactly. Where's the place, nowadays?'

Lord Copper turned to his secretary.

'Wagstaff.'

'Yes, Lord Copper.'

'Memo for tomorrow. "Sack Salter".'

'Very good, Lord Copper.'

****

Only once did Uncle Theodore again tackle his host. He advised him toeat mustard with duck for the good of his liver. Lord Copper seemed notto hear. He sat back in his chair, surveying the room--for the evening,his room. The banquet must go on. At the four long tables which ran atright angles to his own the faces above the white shirt fronts weregrowing redder; the chorus of male conversation swelled in volume. LordCopper began to see himself in a new light, as the deserted leader,shouldering alone the great burden of Duty. The thought comforted him.He had made a study of the lives of other great men; loneliness was theprice they had all paid. None, he reflected, had enjoyed the devotionthey deserved; there was Caesar and Brutus, Napoleon and Josephine,Shakespeare and--someone, he believed, had been disloyal to Shakespeare.

The time of his speech was drawing near. Lord Copper felt the familiar,infinitely agreeable sense of well-being which always preceded his afterdinner speeches; his was none of the nervous inspiration, the despairand exaltation of more ambitious orators; his was the profound,incommunicable contentment of the monologue. He felt himself suffusedwith a gentle warmth; he felt magnanimous.

'Wagstaff.'

'Lord Copper?'

'What was the last memo I gave you?'

'"Sack Salter," Lord Copper.'

'Nonsense. You must be more accurate. I said "Shift Salter."'

****

At last the great moment came. The toast master thundered on the floorwith his staff and his tremendous message rang through the room.

'My Lords, Right Reverend Gentlemen, Gentlemen. Pray silence for theRight Honourable the Viscount Copper.'

Lord Copper rose and breasted the applause. Even the waiters, he noticedwith approval, were diligently clapping. He leant forwards on his fists,as it was his habit to stand on these happy occasions, and waited forsilence. His secretary made a small, quite unnecessary adjustment to themicrophone. His speech lay before him in a sheaf of typewritten papers.Uncle Theodore murmured a few words of encouragement. 'Cheer up,' hesaid. 'It won't last long.'

'Gentlemen,' he began, 'many duties fall to the lot of a man of myposition, some onerous, some pleasant. It is a very pleasant duty towelcome tonight a colleague who though'--and Lord Copper saw the words'young in years' looming up at him; he swerved--'young in his service toMegalopolitan Newspapers, has already added lustre to the greatenterprise we have at heart--Boot of the Beast.'

Uncle Theodore, who had joined the staff of the Beast less than sixhours ago, smirked dissent and began to revise his opinion of LordCopper; he was really an uncommonly civil fellow, thought UncleTheodore.

At the name of Boot applause broke out thunderously, and Lord Copperwaiting for it to subside, glanced grimly through the pages ahead ofhim. For some time now his newspapers had been advocating a new form ofdriving test, by which the applicant for a licence sat in a stationarycar while a cinema film unfolded before his eyes a night-mare-drive downa road full of obstacles. Lord Copper had personally inspected a deviceof the kind and it was thus that his speech now appeared to him. Theopportunities and achievements of youth had been the theme. Lord Copperlooked from the glowing sentences to the guest of honour beside him (whoat the moment had buried his nose in his brandy glass and was inhalingstertorously but with a suggestion of disapproval) and he rose above it.The banquet must go on.

The applause ended and Lord Copper resumed his speech. His hearers sanklow in their chairs and beguiled the time in a variety of ways; bydrawing little pictures on the menu, by playing noughts and crosses onthe tablecloth, by having modest bets as to who could keep the ashlongest on his cigar; and over them the tropic tide of oratory rose andbroke in foaming surf over the bowed, bald head of Uncle Theodore. Itlasted thirty-eight minutes by Mr Salter's watch.

'Gentlemen,' said Lord Copper at last, 'in giving you the toast of Boot,I give you the toast of the Future...'

The Future... A calm and vinous optimism possessed the banquet...

A future for Lord Copper that was full to surfeit of things which nosane man seriously coveted--of long years of uninterrupted oratory atother banquets in other causes; of yearly, prodigious payments ofsuper-tax crowned at their final end by death duties of unprecedentedsize; of a deferential opening and closing of doors, of muffledtelephone bells and almost soundless typewriters.

A future for Uncle Theodore such as he had always at heart believed tobe attainable. Two thousand a year, shady little gentlemen's chambers,the opportunity for endless reminiscence; sunlit morning saunteringsdown St James's Street between hatter and boot-maker and club; felineprowlings after dark; a buttonhole, a bowler hat with a curly brim, aclouded malacca cane, a kindly word to commissionaires and cab drivers.

A future for Mr Salter as Art Editor of Home Knitting; punctualdomestic dinners; Sunday at home among the crazy pavements.

A future for Sir John Boot with the cropped amazons of the Antarctic.

A future for Mrs Stitch heaped with the spoils of every continent andevery century, gadgets from New York and bronzes from the Ægean, newentrées and old friends.

A future for Corker and Pigge; they had travelled six hundred miles bynow and were nearing the Soudanese frontier. Soon they would be kindlyreceived by a District Commissioner, washed and revictualled and sent ontheir way home.

A future for Kätchen. She was sitting, at the moment, in the secondclass saloon of a ship bound for Madagascar, writing a letter:

Darling William,

We are going to Madagascar. My husband used to have a friend there and he says it is more comfortable than to come to Europe so will you please send us the money there. Not care of the consul because that would not be comfortable but poste restante. My husband says I should not have sold the specimens but I explained that you would pay what they are worth so now he does not mind. They are worth £50. It will be better if you will buy francs because he says you will get more than we should. We look forward very much to getting the money, so please send it by the quickest way. The boat was not worth very much money when we got to French territory. I am very well.

Ever your loving,
Kätchen.

A future for William...

...the waggons lumber in the lane under their golden glory ofharvested sheaves; he wrote, maternal rodents pilot their furry broodthrough the stubble;...

He laid down his pen. Lush Places need not be finished until tomorrowevening.

The rest of the family had already gone up. William took the last candlefrom the table and put out the lamps in the hall. Under the threadbarecarpet the stair-boards creaked as he mounted to his room.

Before getting into bed he drew the curtain and threw open the window.Moonlight streamed into the room.

Outside the owls hunted maternal rodents and their furry brood.

[End of Scoop, by Evelyn Waugh]