It was three o'clock, and the afternoon sun reddened the western
windows of one of the busiest of Government offices. In an airy room
on the third floor Richard Dale was batting. Standing in front of
the coal-box with the fire-shovel in his hands, he was a model of
the strenuous young Englishman; and as for the third time he turned
the Government india-rubber neatly in the direction of square-leg,
and so completed his fifty, the bowler could hardly repress a sigh
of envious admiration. Even the reserved Matthews, who was too old
for cricket, looked up a moment from his putting, and said, "Well
played, Dick!"
The fourth occupant of the room was busy at his desk, as if to give
the lie to the thoughtless accusation that the Civil Service
cultivates the body at the expense of the mind. The eager shouts of
the players seemed to annoy him, for he frowned and bit his pen, or
else passed his fingers restlessly through his hair.
"How the dickens you expect any one to think in this confounded
noise," he cried suddenly.
"What's the matter, Ashby?"
"You're the matter. How am I going to get these verses done for The
Evening Surprise if you make such a row? Why don't you go out to
tea?"
"Good idea. Come on, Dale. You coming, Matthews?" They went out,
leaving the room to Ashby.
In his youth Harold Ashby had often been told by his relations that
he had a literary bent. His letters home from school were generally
pronounced to be good enough for Punch, and some of them, together
with a certificate of character from his Vicar, were actually sent
to that paper. But as he grew up he realized that his genius was
better fitted for work of a more solid character. His post in the
Civil Service gave him full leisure for his Adam: A Fragment, his
History of the Microscope, and his Studies in Rural Campanology, and
yet left him ample time in which to contribute to the journalism of
the day.
The poem he was now finishing for The Evening Surprise was his first
contribution to that paper, but he had little doubt that it would be
accepted. It was called quite simply, "Love and Death," and it began
like this:
"Love! O love! (All other things above).--Why, O why, Am I afraid
to die?"
There were six more lines which I have forgotten, but I suppose they
gave the reason for this absurd diffidence.
Having written the poem out neatly, Harold put it in an envelope and
took it round to The Evening Surprise. The strain of composition had
left him rather weak, and he decided to give his brain a rest for
the next few days. So it happened that he was at the wickets on the
following Wednesday afternoon when the commissionaire brought him in
the historic letter. He opened it hastily, the shovel under his arm.
"DEAR SIR," wrote the editor of The Surprise, "will you come round
and see me as soon as convenient?"
Harold lost no time. Explaining that he would finish his innings
later, he put his coat on, took his hat and stick, and dashed out.
"How do you do?" said the editor. "I wanted to talk to you about
your work. We all liked your little poem very much. It will be
coming out to-morrow."
"Thursday," said Harold helpfully.
"I was wondering whether we couldn't get you to join our staff. Does
the idea of doing 'Aunt Miriam's Cosy Corner' in our afternoon
edition appeal to you at all?"
"No," said Harold, "not a bit."
"Ah, that's a pity." He tapped his desk thoughtfully. "Well then,
how would you like to be a war correspondent?"
"Very much," said Harold. "I was considered to write rather good
letters home from school."
"Splendid! There's this little war in Mexico. When can you start?
All expenses and fifty pounds a week. You're not very busy at the
office, I suppose, just now?"
"I could get sick leave easily enough," said Harold, "if it wasn't
for more than eight or nine months."
"Do; that will be excellent. Here's a blank cheque for your outfit.
Can you get off to-morrow? But I suppose you'll have one or two
things to finish up at the office first?"
"Well," said Harold cautiously, "I WAS in, and I'd made ninety-six.
But if I go back and finish my innings now, and then have to-morrow
for buying things, I could get off on Friday."
"Good," said the editor. "Well, here's luck. Come back alive if you
can, and if you do we shan't forget you."
Harold spent the next day buying a war correspondent's outfit:--the
camel, the travelling bath, the putties, the pith helmet, the
quinine, the sleeping-bag, and the thousand-and-one other
necessities of active service. On the Friday his colleagues at the
office came down in a body to Southampton to see him off. Little did
they think that nearly a year would elapse before he again set foot
upon England.
I shall not describe all his famous coups in Mexico. Sufficient to
say that experience taught him quickly all that he had need to
learn; and that whereas he was more than a week late with his cabled
account of the first engagement of the war, he was frequently more
than a week early afterwards. Indeed, the battle of Parson's Nose,
so realistically described in his last telegram, is still waiting to
be fought. It is to be hoped that it will be in time for his
aptly-named book, With the Mexicans in Mexico, which is coming out
next month.
On his return to England Harold found that time had wrought many
changes. To begin with, the editor of The Evening Surprise had
passed on to The Morning Exclamation.
"You had better take his place," said the ducal proprietor to
Harold.
"Right," said Harold. "I suppose I shall have to resign my post at
the office?"
"Just as you like. I don't see why you should."
"I should miss the cricket," said Harold wistfully, "and the salary.
I'll go round and see what I can arrange."
But there were also changes at the office. Harold had been rising
steadily in salary and seniority during his absence, and he found to
his delight that he was now a Principal Clerk. He found, too, that
he had acquired quite a reputation in the office for quickness and
efficiency in his new work.
The first thing to arrange about was his holiday. He had had no
holiday for more than a year, and there were some eight weeks owing
to him.
"Hullo," said the Assistant Secretary as Harold came in, "you're
looking well. I suppose you manage to get away for the week-ends?"
"I've been away on sick leave for some time," said Harold
pathetically.
"Have you? You've kept it very secret. Come out and have lunch with
me, and we'll do a matinee afterwards."
Harold went out with him happily. It would be pleasant to accept the
editorship of The Evening Surprise without giving up the
Governmental work which was so dear to him, and the Assistant
Secretary's words made this possible for a year or so anyhow. Then,
when his absence from the office first began to be noticed, it would
be time to think of retiring on an adequate pension.