They sat in the sitting-room for a long while after they had returned
to Brixton, and Hinde related some of his reminiscences to John.
"I'm one of the world's failures," he said. "I came to London to try
and do great work, and I'm still a journalist. I can recognise a fine
book when I see it, but I can't create one. I'm just a journalist, and
a journalist isn't really a man. He has no life of his own ... he goes
home on sufferance, and may be called up by his editor at any minute to
go galloping off in search of a 'story.' We go everywhere and see
nothing. We meet everybody and know nobody. A journalist is a man
without beliefs and almost without hope. The damned go to Fleet Street
when they die. It's an exciting life ... oh, yes, quite exciting, but
it's horrible to see men merely as 'copy' and to think of the little
secret, intimate things of life only as materials for a good 'story.' I
wish I were a grocer!..."
"Why?" John demanded.
"Well, at least a grocer does not look upon human beings merely as
consumers of sugar!"
"I could have been a grocer if I'd wanted to," John continued. "My
mother wanted me to be a clergyman!"
"What put it into your head to turn scribbler?"
"I just wanted to write a book. I can't make you out, Hinde. One minute
you're advising me to go on a paper, and the next minute you're telling
me a journalist isn't a man!..."
"When you know more of us," Hinde interrupted, "you'll know that all
journalists belittle journalism. It's the one consolation that's left
to them. Unless you're prepared to associate only with journalists,
Mac, you'd much better keep out of Fleet Street. Newspaper men always
feel like fish out of water when they're in the company of other men.
They must be near the newspaper atmosphere ... they can't breathe
without the stink of ink in their nostrils!..."
"All the same I'll have a try at the life," said John.
X
But at the end of his first month in London, John had no more to his
account than this, that he had begun but had not completed a music-hall
sketch, that he had begun but had not made much progress with a
tragedy, that he had tried to obtain employment on the staff of the
_Daily Sensation_ and had failed to do so, and, worst of all, that
he had fallen in love with Eleanor Moore but could not find her
anywhere. His novel supplied the one element of hope that lightened his
thoughts on his month's work. He wished now that he had asked Hinde to
read it before it had been sent to the publisher. Perhaps it would
redeem the month from its dismal state.