Mightier than the Sword

. Beaver had not under-estimated the hospitality of the Prides. They gave him a hearty welcome that made him feel at home at once. Tommy Pride met them in t

t she thought him splendid and flawless—that much he read from the way her brown eyes lit

re permanent on the shelf, and not novels of a moment. There was chintz on the arm-chairs and green curtains hung over the window, and a few original bl

ay, and he imagined he[65] would find himself in the company of the great immortals. Somehow or other it had never crossed his mind that there were patient, toiling men—hundreds of them—who put out their best work day aft

m; "so you're going to try y

k. Beaver and he amused the Prides with recollections of Easterham and Mr

the finer side of literature—at least that was what Smee said. He used to sob all round the place, because he wanted to write great throbbing prose instead of borough-council mee

e dawn, at 8 A.M., like a sudden harbinger of horror, the black flag fluttered above the prison walls, sho

" He leaned towards Humphrey. "Don't you bother about[66] fine writing, Quain, or you'll break your

"Never mind what he says, Mr Quain—there's a chan

mmy, linking an arm in hers, "le

eaver sat opposite, and Tommy was at the head of the table carving the joint of cold roast beef. "I

Humphrey; "then we should at least have the day to ourselves. But

several grains of cyanide of potassium rather than yield. You've got some freedom of thought and life as a re

a more important position tha

reporters wrote untouched. It would have to be a forty-two page paper. Because every reporter thinks his story is the best, and writes as much of it as he can.... I like the subs

seriously. You've all got swelled heads. For the sake of fine phrases you'll lose half the facts. Wh

at night through the sub's hands, they're lopped about and cut up to fit a space. We may pretend we don't care what happens to our writing, so long as we draw our money, but I think we all do in

ful enthusiastic army of young men who had marched down on Fleet Street. All round him he saw signs of the coming change—the old penny papers were talking of changing their price to a halfpenny; the older men in journalism were being pensioned off, or dismissed, or[68] "put on space"—which means that they were not paid a regular salary but at so much a column for what they wrote. The spirit of change was working everywhere: some of the solid writers who found that they could

he would fade away from the life of Fleet Street. And then—"Tommy and I are going to

house, Beaver," Tommy

ge in the country, and Tommy

Beaver, inc

ooks, Mr Pride?

ever written it. Whenever the missis and I get very depressed, we cheer ourselves up by talking of that book, and writing it in the country. By the wa

6

l Mr Quain's evening any more. You're making him quite depressed.

ey by surprise. Beaver was the sort of man who, somehow or other, one imagined would sing in a high treble. He sang on and on, right through the portfolio of the "World's Favourite Songs," including "The Anchor's Weighed," "Jo

ty came over him, as he sat there thinking of the morrow when his battle with Fleet Street was to begin

d an odd sense of not fully knowing this strange new Self with which he was faced. He wondered, too, whether Beaver or Pride had ever passed through the same sensation that was passing through him now. This was the beginning

few hints," he said. "I don't think I can help you much. I think you know your way about. But there are tw

one of the best reporters in Fleet Street—one of the safest, Bea

a pretty big sala

see. Of course, dear old Tommy hasn't got a cent to spare. He's got a girl

he so dis

ay. He pretends h

k as nothing, and all the high ambitions sacrificed to Fleet Street. Was that to be his end too—a reporter for ever, and at the finish of it, nothing but the husks of enthusiasm. He though