"Do you really write?" said Sylvia, gazing at me large-eyed with
wonder. I admitted as much.
"And do they print it just as you write it?"
"Well, their hired grammarians make a few trifling alterations to
justify their existence."
"And do they pay you quite a lot?"
"Sixpence a word."
"Oo! How wonderful!"
"But not for every word," I added hastily, "only the really funny
ones."
"And they send it to you by cheques?"
"Rather. I bought a couple of pairs of socks with the last story;
even then I had something left over."
"And how do you write the stories?"
"Oh, just get an idea and go right ahead."
"How wonderful! Do you just sit down and write it straight off?"
I just--only just--pulled myself up in time as I remembered that
Sylvia was an enthusiast of twelve whose own efforts had already
caused considerable comment in the literary circles described
round the High School. I felt this entitled her to some claim on
my veracity.
"Sylvia," I cried, "I shall have to make a confession. All those
stories you have been good enough to read and occasionally smile over
are the result of a cold-blooded mechanical process--and the help of
a dictionary of synonyms."
"Oo! How wonderful! Do show me how."
"Very well. Since you are going to be a literary giantess it is well
that you should be initiated into the mysteries of producing what I
shall call the illusion of spontaneity. Now take this story here. Here
on this old envelope is THE IDEA."
"Oo! Let me see. I can't read a word."
"Of course you can't; nobody could. Rough copies are divided into
classes as follows:--
"No. 1. Those I can read, but nobody else can.
"No. 2. Those I can't read myself after two days.
"No. 3. Those my typist can read.
"This story is about a certain Brigade Major who is an inveterate
leg-puller. Some Americans are expected to be coming for instruction.
Well, before they arrive the Brigade Major has to go up to the line,
and on his way he meets a man with a very new tin hat who asks him
in a certain nasal accent we have all come to love if he has seen
anything of a party of Americans. Spotting him as a new chum, the
Brigade Major offers to show him round the line, and proceeds to pull
his leg and tells him the most preposterous nonsense. For instance,
on a shot being fired miles away he pretends they are in frightful
danger, and leads him bent double round and round trenches in the
same circle."
"What a shame!"
"Wasn't it? Well, when he gets tired he asks the American if he thinks
he has learnt anything. The American says, 'Gee, I've been out here
two years now, but I guess you've taught me a whole heap I didn't
know. I'm a Canadian tunneller, you know, and I've got to show some
Americans our work, but I guess I've had a most interesting time
with you."
"Ha! ha!"
"Well now, to put the story into its form. Here's Copy No. 1, on
this old envelope. 'Americans coming--Brigade Major sees American
looking for party--pulls his leg--pretends to being in frightful
danger--American is Canadian who has been out two years.' See? Copy
No. 2. Here we begin to till in. Describe Brigade headquarters and
previous leg-pulls of Brigade Major. Make up details of what he tells
the American--'That's a trench. That thing you fell over is a coil
of wire. This is a sunken road--we sunk it, etc., etc.' Copy No.
3, additions and details, little touches of local colour, revision
of choice of words, heart-rending erasions. And here, my child," I
concluded, bringing out the beautiful, clean, smooth typed copy--"here
is the finished work itself, light, pleasant, fluent, humorous and,
most important of all, spontaneous."
"Oo! But how awfully cold-blooded. I thought you smiled to yourself
all the time you wrote it."
"My dear girl, it takes hours. If I smiled continually all that length
of time the top of my head would come off."
"Isn't it wonderful? Fancy building it all up from jottings on an old
envelope! What's that piece of paper you took out of the typed copy?"
"Oh, that's nothing to do with the literary side of it," I said,
crumpling up the little memorandum, which said that the Editor
presented compliments and regretted that he was unable to make
use of the enclosed contribution.
* * * * *
"Mr. Henderson ... was received with a cry of 'He is not on the
map now.'"--_Times_.
It is supposed that his supporter meant to say "not on the mat"--in
reference to an incident at the close of Mr. HENDERSON'S Ministerial
career. But many a true word is said in the Press by inadvertence.
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE WAR AGAINST THE PUBLIC.
PROFITEERING HEN. "NOTHING DOING AT FIVEPENCE. BUT I MIGHT PERHAPS LAY
YOU ONE FOR NINEPENCE. WHAT! YOU THOUGHT THE WAR WAS OVER? NOT _MY_
WAR."]
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Dear Old Lady (to returning warrior)_. "WELCOME BACK
TO BLIMEY!"]
* * * * *