"Well, write a lot of slushy staff about the sun shining through the rose-coloured window just as the King entered the Abbey. That always goes down well. There are three psalms to be sung during the service.

If you quote the first one, I'll quote the second, and then we shan't clash. Is that agreed?"

"All right!"

Half the journalists retreated from the pole-barrier and sat on a pile of planks at the back of the platform. Like John, they suffered from giddiness. They had their writing-pads open, however, and were busily engaged in inventing accounts of the ceremonial that was presently to be performed. John glanced over a man's shoulder and caught sight of the words, "As His Majesty entered the ancient abbey, a burst of sunlight fell through the old rose window and cast a glorious crimson light on his beautiful regalia!...."

"Lord!" said John, moving away.

He went to the end of the platform, and then, moved by some feeling which he could not explain, descended the dark, stone stairs which he had lately mounted. He could hear the music of the organ, and presently the choir began to sing an anthem.

"I suppose it's beginning," he thought.

He reached the ground-floor, and presently found himself standing behind a stone-screen in the company of selected persons and officials in brilliant uniforms. There were three special reporters here, to whom an official in a gorgeous green garb, looking very like a figure on a pack of cards, was giving information. John edged nearer to them, and as he did so, he saw that some ceremony was proceeding in one of the chapels.

"What's happening?" he asked in a whisper.

His neighbor whispered back that this was to be the chapel of the Order of the Bath, and that the King was about to conduct some ceremonial with the Knights of the Order. He raised himself on the edge of a tomb and saw two lines of old men in rich claret-coloured robes facing each other, with a broad s.p.a.ce between them, and while he looked, the King pa.s.sed between the Knights who bowed to him as he pa.s.sed towards the altar. He heard the murmur of old, feeble voices as the Knights swore to protect the widow and the orphan and the virgin from wrong and injury!...

"They haven't the strength to protect a fly," John whispered to his neighbour.

"Ssh!" his neighbour whispered back, "it's a symbolical promise!..."

VI

He hurried to the offices of the _Evening Herald_ and wrote his account of the ceremony he had seen. He described the old and venerable men who had sworn to protect the widow and the orphan and the distressed virgin, and demanded of those in authority by what right they degraded an ancient and honourable Order by allowing feeble octogenarians to make promises they were incapable of fulfilling.

Heaven help the distressed virgin who depended on these tottering knights for succour!... He had written half a column of very vituperative stuff when Hinde came into the room.

"Hilloa," said Hinde, "done that job all right?"

John smiled and nodded his head.

"I've got a letter for you," Hinde continued. "Cream sent it to me and asked me to pa.s.s it on to you. He hasn't got your address!"

He handed the letter to John and then picked up some of the sheets on which the report of the ceremony in the Abbey was being written. He read the first two sheets and then uttered a sharp exclamation.

"Anything wrong?" John asked.

"Wrong!" Hinde gaped at him, incapable of expressing himself with sufficient force. He swallowed and then, with a great effort, spoke very calmly. "My dear chap," he said, "I regard it as a merciful act of G.o.d that I came into this room when I did. What the!... Oh, well, it's no good talking to you. You're absolutely hopeless!"

"Why, what's the matter?"

"Matter! I can't print your stuff. I should get the sack if I were to let this sort of thing go into the paper. Haven't you any sense of proportion at all?"

"But the whole thing was ridiculous!..."

"What's that got to do with it? Half the world is ridiculous, but there's no need to run about telling everybody!"

"But if you'd seen them ... _old_ fellows swearing to draw their swords in defence of women and children, and them not fit to do more than draw their pensions!..."

"Yes, yes, we know all about that. But a certain amount of humbug is decent and necessary!" He turned to a young man who had just entered the room. "Here, Chilvers, I want you to do a couple of columns on that stunt at the Abbey this morning!"

"Righto," said Chilvers.

"But he wasn't there!" John protested.

"Wasn't there!" Hinde echoed scornfully. "A good journalist doesn't need to be there. Just give the programme to him, will you?" John handed the order of proceedings to Chilvers, and Hinde added a few instructions. "Write up the King," he said. "Every inch a sovereign and that sort of stuff. Royal dignity!... Was Kitchener there?" he said turning again to John.

"Yes. A disappointing-looking man!..."

"Write him up, too. Say something about soldierly mien and stern, unbending features!"

"I see," said Chilvers. "The other chaps.... I'll work them off as venerable wiseacres!..."

"No, don't rub their age in. Venerable's not a nice word to use about anything except a cathedral. You can call the Abbey a venerable edifice or the sacred fane, but it would look nicer if you call the old buffers "the Elder Statesmen." Good phrase that! Hasn't been used much, either.

Get it done quickly, will you?" He turned to John. "You might have made us miss the Home Edition with your desire to tell the truth!"

John turned away. The sense of failure that had been in possession of him since the production of _Milchu and St. Patrick_ filled him now and made him feel terribly desolate. Whatever he did seemed to fail. He set off with high hopes and fine intentions, but when he reached his destination, his arrival seemed to be of very little importance and his small boat seemed to be very small and his cargo of slight value. Almost mechanically he opened Cream's letter. Hinde, having discussed other matters with Chilvers, called to John. "Come and see me in my room, will you, before you go!" and John answered, "Very good!" He read Cream's note. Cream had suddenly to produce a new sketch, and he had overhauled John's piece and put it on at the Wolverhampton Coliseum. _"It went with a bang, my boy! Absolutely knocked 'em clean off their perch! I wish you'd do another!..."_

He enclosed postal orders for two pounds, the fee for one week's performance. John put the letter into his pocket and, nodding to Chilvers, now busily writing up the King and Lord Kitchener, he left the room and went to Hinde's office.

"I'm. sorry, Mac," Hinde said to him, "I'm sorry I let out at you just now, but you gave me a fright. I'd have been fired if I'd let your thing go to press!"

"I quite understand," John answered. "I see that I'm not fit for this sort of work. I don't seem to be much good at anything!"

"What about Cream? He told me he'd done your sketch very successfully!"

John pa.s.sed Cream's letter to him. "Well, you can do that sort of thing all right anyhow," Hinde said when he had read the letter.

"Cream re-wrote it," John murmured. "And even if he hadn't, it's not much of an achievement, is it? I wanted to write good stuff, and I can't do it. I can't even do decent journalism!..."

"Oh, those articles you do aren't too bad," Hinde said encouragingly.

"What are a few articles! The only success I have is with a low music-hall sketch, and even that has to be rewritten!"

"Come, come!" said Hinde. "You're feeling depressed now. You'll change your mind presently. I daresay there's plenty of good stuff in you and one of these days it'll come out. You needn't get into the dumps because you've failed to make good as a journalist. G.o.d knows that's no triumphant career! Plenty of good writers have tried to make a living at journalism and failed hopelessly. Haven't had half the success you've had! Finished that new book of yours yet?"

"Very nearly!"

"I suppose Jannissary is going to do it, too?"

"Yes. I've contracted for three novels with him!"

"I wonder how that man would live if it weren't for the vanity of young authors!"

"I don't know," said John. "I'm too busy wondering how young authors manage to live!"