Mr. Emilio Zanti's chuckling for no reason at all and spreading his broad fat hand over Peter Westcott's knee.
“Well, Mr. Peter, and 'ave you been to London in all these years? Or perhaps you 'ave forgotten that you ever wanted to go there?”
No, Peter was still of the same mind but Treliss and a few miles up and down the road were as much of the world as he'd had the pleasure of seeing—except for school in Devonshire—
“And you'd still go, my leetle friend?”
“Yes—I want to go—I hate being in an office here.”
“And what is it zat you will do when you are there?”
Suddenly, in a flash, illuminating the little room, shining over the whole world, Peter knew what it was that he would do.
“I will write.”
“Write what?”
“Stories.”
With that word muttered, his head hanging, his cheeks flushing, as though it were something of which he was most mightily ashamed, he knew what it was he had been wanting all these months. The desire had been there, the impulse had been there . . . now with the spoken word the blind faltering impulse was changed into definite certainty.
Mr. Zanti thought it a tremendous joke. He roared, shouted with riotous laughter. “Oh, ze boy—he will be the death of me—‘I will write stories’—Oh yes, so easy, so very simple. ‘I will write stories’—Oh yes.”
But Peter was very solemn. He did not like his great intention to be laughed at.
“I mean it,” he said rather gruffly.
“Oh yes, that's of course—but that is enough. Oh dear, yes . . . well, my friend, I like you. You are very strong, you are brave I can see—you have a fine spirit. One thing you lack—with all you English it is the same.”
He paused interrogatively but Peter did not seem to wish to know what this quality was.
“Yes, it is ze Humour—you do not see how funny life is—always—always funny. Death, murder, robberies, violences—always funny—you are. Oh! so solemn and per'aps you will be annoyed, think it tiresome, because I laugh—”
