CHAPTER VIII

MEN AND MONEY

GEORGE HARVEY'S printing business was not

very prosperous, and it received a blow which finished it. He was not a hustler and there was plenty of competition in the town and neighbourhood, for the various kinds of printing that Ganton demanded. But there was the newspaper business, the stationery and the occasional book to be sold. Then Lance brought money in. Not only did Lance get thirty shillings a week now from Mr. Bissle but he earned little sums besides. He wrote occasional sketches and short stories and was paid for them-the great test of journalism and the pen's value.

Lance loved his work. He entered the office of the Examiner and Times with joy (not at all like David Ewins going to his work). He would go up to his room on the first floor, next to the composing room (where his thrilling and stirring reports of annual teas and bowling suppers and billiard handicaps and club concerts were set up in type) and look at his diary. Urban District Council Meeting at eleven; lecture in the evening by the Rev. Mr. Thingummy (who has just returned from the Scilly Isles and wants to tell his poor congregation all about it and they won't like to stay away); presentation to Brother Somebody

protest against

P. P. G. M. of the Oddfellows; political meeting to He had to make up his mind how much space could be granted to the Rev. Mr. Thingummy (who would probably order a dozen copies of the paper to send to his friends) and how much to Oddfellow Brother Somebody P. P. G. M. (who would probably do the same). He would tell his assistant-Arthur Eagle, aged 17-to give "two sticks" to Mr. Thingummy and a short par. to the Oddfellow. He, Lance, would do the Council Meeting and so on.

And when the paper came out he would read what he had written and criticise it, and make up his mind for the future to be a little brighter. And that phrase of the junior's: "The weather was not so propitious as on a previous occasion" was not very brilliant.

But his notes-still signed "Scrutator"-were his chief delight, for there he could really be himself, really say something, could let himself go, even if he found it very difficult sometimes to know what on earth to say or to discover the thing into which he might go.

Very few books came to be reviewed, but magazines arrived and sometimes Mr. Bissle would say: "Take these, Lance, and give about a 'stick' to the lot”—that meant a short paragraph.

Mr. Bissle looked at the paper a little differently from Lance. He would look at its appearance, the printing, setting up, etc. Then he would compare it with its rivals. He would count how many columns of advertisements he had and how many they had. Then he would see if they had advertisements which he had not, and when they had he would cut them out and attempt to get them in the next issue of the Examiner and Times, "which circulates in a rich and

populous district and is the recognised official organ and the best advertising medium for that neighbourhood." If soap was worth recommending in the pages of the Herald it ought also to be recommended to the readers of the Examiner and Times.

Lance's spare time was when there was nothing to report. After a morning's visit to the office, then to the police and fire stations, to pick up trifles or matters of moment as the case might be, he might have nothing more to do that morning. Sometimes his afternoon was free and occasionally the evening. He played golf but did not take golfitis-probably due to the cacoethes scribendi microbe being in his system. It was no good trying to say, “Don't move your head. Keep your eye on the ball," if you were thinking how to get that beautiful girl off the lugger and out of the villain's clutches.

Having scored small successes he began to dream of the long novel. It was really that that carried weight after all: that was the cargo boat to bring the argosy ashore. The acceptance of these sketches and short stories was very encouraging, but short stories—well, they were all right in the hands of a Kipling perhaps "but there are so few Kiplings."

The last was George Harvey's remark. He had "Soldiers Three" in his hand, and his beautifully embroidered smoking cap with the silky tassel was at a rakish angle.

"Besides," said Lance, "there's more room in a novel: you can go further afield."

"And flounder, my boy, eh? . . . It sounds easier, but it isn't easier to write a column than a paragraph, is it? It just depends on the theme. Some people can't gather enough material for a long novel and yet will

write one: what's the consequence? Thinness, milk puddings made mostly of water-padded fore and aft -American suits to make you think there's a giant inside, when the bones of the poor skeleton are rattling and moaning for more fat-an orchestra made out of a drum, a fiddle and a cornet, a case without a's and e's!" He shook his head. "No stuffing, Lance, because the joint is small and mostly bone: stuffing to be additional, like apple sauce or the holly on the pudding, but not instead of the principal dish. Holly is no good as sustenance. If you haven't got a tale, don't try to tell one-that's one of the great secrets." George Harvey was a critic.

"Some people have tales and then can't tell them," said Lance quietly.

"That's where the man who can tell a tale scores. Some can talk finely without a tale, and some can tell a tale and can't talk finely at all, and some, of course, can tell a fine tale finely. They are the people."

"I'm going to write a novel," said Lance after a pause, with the seriousness and ready resolve of youth. "Margaret!"

"Yes, dear."

"Did you hear that?"

"I did."

"This offspring of ours is going to write a novel!" "He is going to tell a tale and tell it beautifully," said Mrs. Harvey.

"Lance, don't listen: that's just motherishnessbeautiful, fond, loving motherishness. And yet, why not? Pourquoi pas-isn't that it, Lance? I like the whynots: I think they do things in life. Let us encourage the whynots always. You certainly should try, my boy."

"I'm going to do it," said Lance quietly.

"Ha! Ha! Ha! There speaks Napoleon. But that's right, my boy. Nobody ever did anything worth doing in this world who di ln't believe he could do it. You're right, Lance. You must have confidence in yourself or you will do nothing worth doing. Believe in yourself and the world will believe in you, too. And what does it matter if you fail? What is failure? A mere incident, no more than a shower, no more than the pipe going out when you've got plenty more baccy and matches. Failure everybody ought to fail now and again, for these little tumbles are reminders that the road to success is not all smooth and easy. Easy success is the road to oblivion. What drunkard fails to get drunk when he wants? What fool fails in folly when he goes headlong for it? They don't fail. Those who fail are those who climb. Never mind the grunters who say in a deep or a melancholy voice: 'You might fail.' Laugh at them. Tell them you might succeed, too, and he who never failed at all is a genius or a fool. Margaret, we are going to write a novel, a nice, good, long, rousing, interesting novel→ that's settled. Now what kind is it to be, Lance?"

"I'm not sure." He was sitting by the table, looking very thoughtful.

Mrs. Harvey was cutting out a dress for herself and listening.

"Got an idea?" asked Mr. Harvey.

"Plenty," said the Imaginative One.

"Ho! Ho! That's good. Plenty of corn in the larder, plenty of seed in the garden! What sort of ideas, my boy? Is it to be a domestic story or something satiric or psychological or just a tale to take us out of ourselves and interest us- -a detective tale to