Chapter 1

I HAD simply, I suppose, a change of heart, and it must have begun
when I received my manuscript back from Mr. Pinhorn. Mr. Pinhorn
was my "chief," as he was called in the office: he had the high
mission of bringing the paper up. This was a weekly periodical,
which had been supposed to be almost past redemption when he took
hold of it. It was Mr. Deedy who had let the thing down so
dreadfully: he was never mentioned in the office now save in
connexion with that misdemeanour. Young as I was I had been in a
manner taken over from Mr. Deedy, who had been owner as well as
editor; forming part of a promiscuous lot, mainly plant and office-
furniture, which poor Mrs. Deedy, in her bereavement and
depression, parted with at a rough valuation. I could account for
my continuity but on the supposition that I had been cheap. I
rather resented the practice of fathering all flatness on my late
protector, who was in his unhonoured grave; but as I had my way to
make I found matter enough for complacency in being on a "staff."
At the same time I was aware of my exposure to suspicion as a
product of the old lowering system. This made me feel I was doubly
bound to have ideas, and had doubtless been at the bottom of my
proposing to Mr. Pinhorn that I should lay my lean hands on Neil
Paraday. I remember how he looked at me - quite, to begin with, as
if he had never heard of this celebrity, who indeed at that moment
was by no means in the centre of the heavens; and even when I had
knowingly explained he expressed but little confidence in the
demand for any such stuff. When I had reminded him that the great
principle on which we were supposed to work was just to create the
demand we required, he considered a moment and then returned: "I
see - you want to write him up."

"Call it that if you like."

"And what's your inducement?"

"Bless my soul - my admiration!"

Mr. Pinhorn pursed up his mouth. "Is there much to be done with
him?"

"Whatever there is we should have it all to ourselves, for he
hasn't been touched."

This argument was effective and Mr. Pinhorn responded. "Very well,
touch him." Then he added: "But where can you do it?"

"Under the fifth rib!"

Mr. Pinhorn stared. "Where's that?"

"You want me to go down and see him?" I asked when I had enjoyed
his visible search for the obscure suburb I seemed to have named.

"I don't 'want' anything - the proposal's your own. But you must
remember that that's the way we do things NOW," said Mr. Pinhorn
with another dig Mr. Deedy.

Unregenerate as I was I could read the queer implications of this
speech. The present owner's superior virtue as well as his deeper
craft spoke in his reference to the late