After ten the book goes into Mr. Leach’s private partition, and you’ve got to go in there to sign.
It was there when I came into the office on the morning after we’d been to talk business with Mr. Cloyster. It had been there about an hour and a half.
“Lost your bonus, Price, my boy,” said genial Mr. Leach. And the General Manager, Mr. Fennell, who had stepped out of his own room close by, heard him say it.
“I do not imagine that Mr. Price is greatly perturbed on that account. He will, no doubt, shortly be forsaking us for literature. What Commerce loses, Art gains,” said the G.M.
He may have meant to be funny, or he may not. Some of those standing near took him one way, others the other. Some gravely bowed their heads, others burst into guffaws. The G.M. often puzzled his staff in that way. All were anxious to do the right thing by him, but he made it so difficult to tell what the right thing was.
But, as I went down the basement stairs to change my coat in the clerks’ locker-room, I understood from the G.M.’s words how humiliating my position was.
I had always been a booky sort of person. At home it had been a standing joke that, when a boy, I would sooner spend a penny on Tit-Bits than liquorice. And it was true. Not that I disliked liquorice. I liked Tit-Bits better, though. So the thing had gone on. I advanced from Deadwood Dick to Hall Caine and Guy Boothby; and since I had joined the “Moon” I had actually gone a buster and bought Omar Khayyam in the Golden Treasury series. Added to which, I had recently composed a little lyric for a singer at the “Moon’s” annual smoking concert. The lines were topical and were descriptive of our Complete Compensation Policy. Tommy Milner was the vocalist. He sang my composition to a hymn tune. The refrain went:
Come and buy a C.C.Pee-ee! If you want immunitee-ee From the accidents which come Please plank down your premium. Life is diff’rent, you’ll agree Repeat When you’ve got a C.C.P.
The Throne Room of the Holborn fairly rocked with applause.
Well, it was shortly afterwards that I had received a visit from Mr. Cloyster—the visit which ended in my agreeing to sign whatever manuscripts he sent me, and forward him all cheques for a consideration of ten per cent. Softest job ever a man had. Easy money. Kudos—I had almost too much of it. Which takes me back to the G.M.’s remark about my leaving the office. Since he’s bought that big house at Regent’s Park he’s done a lot of entertaining at the restaurants. His name’s always cropping up in the “Here and There” column, and naturally he’s a subscriber to the Strawberry Leaf. The G.M. has everything of the best and plenty of it. (You don’t see the G.M. with memo. forms tucked round his cuffs: he wears a clean shirt every morning of his life. All tip-top people have their little eccentricities.) And the Strawberry Leaf, the smartest, goeyest, personalest weekly, is never missing from his drawing-room what-not. Every week it’s there, regular as clockwork. That’s what started my literary reputation among the fellows at the “Moon.” Mr. Cloyster was contributing a series of short dialogues to the Strawberry Leaf—called, “In Town.” These, on publication, bore my own signature. As a matter of fact, I happened to see the G.M. showing the first of the series to Mr. Leach in his private room. I’ve kept it by me, and I don’t wonder the news created a bit of a furore. This was it:–-
IN TOWN BY SIDNEY PRICE
No. I.—THE SECRECY OF THE BALLET
(You are standing under the shelter of the Criterion’s awning. It is 12.30 of a summer’s morning. It is pouring in torrents. A quick and sudden rain storm. It won’t last long, and it doesn’t mean any harm. But what’s sport to it is death to you. You were touring the Circus in a new hat. Brand new. Couldn’t spot your tame cabby. Hadn’t a token. Spied the Cri’s awning. Dashed at it. But it leaks. Not so much as the sky though. Just enough, however, to do your hat no good. You mention this to Friendly Creature with umbrella, and hint that you would like to share that weapon.)
FRIENDLY CREATURE. Can’t give you all, boysie. Mine’s new, too.
YOU. (in your charming way). Well, of course. You wouldn’t be a woman if you hadn’t a new hat.
FRIENDLY CREATURE. Do women always have new hats?
YOU. (edging under the umbrella). Women have new hats. New women have hats.
FRIENDLY CREATURE. Don’t call me a woman, ducky; I’m a lady.
YOU. I must be careful. If I don’t flatter you, you’ll take your umbrella away.
FRIENDLY CREATURE (changing subject). There’s Matilda.
YOU. Where?
FRIENDLY CREATURE. Coming towards us in that landaulette.
YOU. Looks fit, doesn’t she?
FRIENDLY CREATURE. Her! She’s a blooming rotter.
YOU. Not so loud. She’ll hear you.
FRIENDLY CREATURE (raising her voice). Good job. I want her to. Stumer!
YOU. S-s-s-sh! What are you saying? Matilda’s a duchess now.
FRIENDLY CREATURE. I know.
YOU. But you mustn’t say “Stumer” to a duchess unless–-
FRIENDLY CREATURE. Well?
YOU. Unless you’re a duchess yourself?
FRIENDLY CREATURE. I am. At least I was. Only I chucked it.
YOU. But you said you were a lady.
FRIENDLY CREATURE. So I am. An extra lady—front row, second O.P.
YOU. How rude of me. Of course you were a duchess. I know you perfectly. Gorell Barnes said–-
FRIENDLY CREATURE. Drop it. What’s the good of the secrecy of the ballet if people are going to remember every single thing about you?
(At this point the rain stops. By an adroit flanking movement you get away without having to buy her a lunch.)
Everyone congratulated me. “Always knew he had it in him,” “Found his vocation,” “A distinctly clever head,” “Reaping in the shekels”—that was the worst part. The “Moon,” to a man, was bent on finding out “how much Sidney Price makes out of his bits in the papers.” Some dropped hints—the G.M., Leach, and the men at the counter. Others, like Tommy Milner, asked slap out. You may be sure I didn’t tell them a fixed sum. But it was hopeless to say I was getting the small sum which my ten per cent. commission worked out at. On the other hand, I dared not pretend I was being paid at the usual rates. I should have gone broke in twenty-four hours. You have no idea how constantly I was given the opportunity of lending five shillings to important members of the “Moon” staff. It struck me then—and I have found out for certain since—that there is a popular anxiety to borrow from a man who earns money by writing. The earnings of a successful writer are, to the common intelligence, something he ought not really to have. And anyone, in default of abstracting his income, may fall back upon taking up his time.