he wanted my brains on ice. He got 'em. I believe it's the best thing I've ever done.' He reached for The Cake and re-read it luxuriously. 'Yes, out and away the best—supremely quotable,' he concluded, and—after another survey—'By God, what a genius I was yesterday!'
I would have been angry, but I had not the time. That morning, Press agencies grovelled to me in The Bun office for leave to use certain photos, which, they understood, I controlled, of a certain village dance. When I had sent the fifth man away on the edge of tears, my self-respect came back a little. Then there was The Bun's poster to get out. Art being elimination, I fined it down to two words (one too many, as it proved)—'The Gubby!' in red, at which our manager protested; but by five o'clock he told me that I was the Napoleon of Fleet Street. Ollyett's account in The Bun of the Geoplanarians' Exercises and Love Feast lacked the supreme shock of his version in The Cake, but it bruised more; while the photos of 'The Gubby' (which, with Winnie's left leg, was why I had set the doubtful press to work so early) were beyond praise and, next day, beyond price. But even then I did not understand.
A week later, I think it was, Bat Masquerier telephoned to me to come to the Trefoil.
'It's your turn now,' he said. 'I'm not asking Ollyett. Come to the stage-box.'
I went, and, as Bat's guest, was received as Royalty is not. We sat well back and looked out on the packed thousands. It was Morgiana and
