Biddick has placed me in a most awkward position. I am a proud man; I
cannot bring myself to accept a gift of money from anybody. And yet I
cannot help feeling I should be justified in taking the guinea he has
sent me.
Biddick is a journalist. I was discussing the inflation of prices and
asking his advice as to how to increase one's income. "Why not write
something for the Press, my dear fellow?" he said. "Five hundred words
with a catchy title; nothing funny--that's _my_ line--but something
solid and practical with money in it; the public's always ready for
that. Take your neighbour, old Diggles, and his mushroom-beds, for
instance. Thriving local industry--capital copy. Try your hand at half
a column, and call it 'A Fortune in Fungus.'"
"I 'm afraid I know nothing about mushrooms, with the exception of the
one I nearly died of," I replied, "and I'm not sufficiently acquainted
with Mr. Diggles to venture to invite his confidence respecting his
business."
"My dear man, I don't ask you to tell Diggles you're going to write
him up in the newspapers; he'd kick you off the premises; he doesn't
want his secrets given away to competitors. Just dodge the old man
round the sheds, get into conversation with his staff, keep your
eyes open generally and you'll pick up as much as you want for half a
column. And when you've got your notes together bring 'em along to me.
I'll put 'em shipshape for you."