gave to the stone embankment reminded him of the wooden jetty at Treliss—the place was strangely sweet—the roar of the Strand was far away and muffled.
As he sat there listening there seemed to come up to him, straight out of the river, strange impersonal noises that had to do with no definite sounds. He was reminded of a story that he had once read, a story concerning a nice young man who caught the disease known as the Horror of London. Peter thought that in the air, coming from nowhere, intangible, floating between the river and the sky something stirred . . .
Big Ben struck quarter to four and he turned once more into the Strand.
The editor of The Saturday Illustrated was a very different person from Mr. Boset. At a desk piled with papers, stern, gaunt and sharp-chinned, his words rattled out of his mouth like peas onto a plate. But Peter saw that he had humorous twinkling eyes.
“Well, what can you do?”
“I've never tried anything—but I feel that I should learn—”
“Learn! Do you suppose this office is a nursery shop for teaching sucklings how to draw their milk.” Are you ready for anything?”
“Anything—”
“Yes—they all say that. Journalism isn't any fun, you know.”
“I'm not looking for fun.”
“Well, it's the damnedest trade out. Anything's better. But you want to write?”
“I must.”
“Yes—exactly. Well, I like the look of you. More blood and bones than most of the rotten puppies that come into this office. I've no job for you at the moment though. Go back to your digs and write something—anything you like—and send it along—leave me your address. Oh, ho! Bucket Lane—hard up?”
“I'm all right, thank you.”
“All right, I wasn't offering you charity—no need to put your pride up. I shan't forget you . . . but send me something.”
