"Enid," I said, "we must offer something to somebody."
"You don't mean Squawks?" she pleaded piteously.
"I wish I did," I sighed. Squawks is a Pomorachshund--at least I think so;
though Enid inclines towards the Chowkingese theory. Anyhow, he himself has
always realised that someone had blundered, and has worked steadily to make
a dog of himself.
"Well, if it's not Squawks, I don't care," remarked Enid.
"I wish you'd take some interest."
"What in?"
"In what I say."
"What _did_ you say?"
"We must," I repeated, "offer something to somebody."
"That's not very enthusey. Unless"--and her whole face brightened--"you
mean what you call your reading-chair. It threw me on to the floor and
knelt on me only yesterday; and I know Aunt Anne----"
"Enid," I said sternly, "that's not the point."
"I was afraid not."
"The thing is, one must be in the swim. Everybody is offering things right
and left now. Look at SUTHERLAND, DERBY--even LLOYD GEORGE."
"I didn't know they were friends of yours."
"Not exactly; but----"
"Then why so familiar?"
"My dear," I explained, "that _is_ the point. Once get your name in the
papers at the end of a two-column letter and you are the friend of all the
world--it gives one an _entrée_ to the castle of the Duke and the cottage
of the crofter."
"Even before you've written it?"
"I have written it!"
"Oh, how splendid! Where?"
"In here," I said, tapping the best bit of my head.
"Oh, _that_!" And then, pensively: "Next time Mary Jane has a brainstorm,
I'll tell her to call you 'Charley.' Poor girl!"
"I don't think you quite appreciate," I remarked.
"I don't. What exactly do we stand to gain?"
"There's the rub. Not lucre. Perish the thought! But one begins to be a
power, an influence. People whisper in the Tube, 'Who's that?' '_That!_
Don't you know? Why Him--He! The man who is making the Government a
laughing-stock. The man who holds the Empire in the palm of his hand. The
man who----'"
"Thanks," said Enid. "We had better buy a gramophone. I thought you were
getting fidgety at home."
"Dearest," I explained, "it is not that. It is because I feel in me a
spirit that will not be denied. Give me the opportunity and I will make
this land, this England----"
"Hush, Squawks. Was'ms frightened then, poor darling!"
"That dog----"
"Hush!" said Enid to me. "How are you going to begin?"
"It is quite simple. Somebody writes something to the papers."
"Yes; so far it sounds easy."
"Now that something is hideously disparaging to my class and calling. I
promptly answer him."
"That is, if you can be funnier at his expense than he at yours."
"I shan't be funny at all."
"No?" said Enid thoughtfully.
"Mine will be a scathing indictment, and of course I shall bring in the
political situation. He writes back, evading the point at issue. I crush
him with figures and statistics, and make him a practical offer--a few
deer-forests, a paltry township, or my unearned increment, as the case may
be."
"The mowing-machine is out of order," Enid remarked.
"I quote passages in his letter as the basis of negotiation. He pretends to
accept. I point out how, when and why he has been guilty of paltry
quibbling, and show that the Party he supports fosters such methods and
manners."
"Is that all?"
"No. And that is just where I shall differ from everybody else. I shall go
on where they have stopped. Having made one individual ridiculous, I shall
broaden the basis of operation. With consummate skill I shall gradually
draw the public officials down into the arena."
"Don't forget the gas-man; he was very rude last month."
"Not that kind," I explained. "Cabinet Ministers, Secretaries of State, the
whole machinery of government shall writhe under the barbed shafts of my
mockery. Ridicule is the power of the age. Ridicule in my hands shall be as
bayonets to NAPOLEON, as poison to a BORGIA." I gasped.
"Help!" said Enid, taking up _The Daily Most_. "Here's the very
thing," she went on. "Somebody called 'A. Lethos'----"
"Pah! A pseudonym."
"Well, anyhow, he says that all political writers are worthless sycophants.
You might begin on that."
"I will," I cried. "But craven anonymity is not my part. My name shall
stand forth boldly. Fate's linger points the way. How do you spell
'sycophant'? The type has gone a bit dizzy over it."
And I plunged into the fray.
"Sir," I began; and there followed 2,000 words of closely-woven argument,
down to "I remain, Sir, your obedient Servant."
I read it through carefully, looked up "sycophant" in the dictionary, and
wrote it all out again.
Then I showed it to Enid.
"Why have you spelt 'sycophant' like that?" she asked.
"I----"
"No, 'y.'"
"It _is_ a 'y.'"
"Oh!" (Pause.) "What about the offer? Mr. Lethos says that ninetenths of
what is written nowadays is only worth the ink and paper."
"The offer," I reminded her, "will come later."
"Oh! I just thought---- You might get rid of those articles on 'Happiness
in the Home' at cost price. They're running up to quite a lot in stamps."