Wyvern might support.
Bill achieved his end: the stories he had had printed in magazines,
secretly shown to his proud mother, were now brought forth and
chuckled over with glee by the Professor. The famous biologist
struggled through one of the stories, vowed he had read them all,
cheerily patted Bill's arm with his shaky old hand, and cheerfully
abandoned the hope he had held of seeing his son a great surgeon.
It was Bill's burning ambition to obtain a post upon a paper. Not
until later did he learn that it is the men outside the papers who
must have a turn for stringing sentences; that those inside are
machines, cutting and serving the material with no greater interest in
it than has the cheesemonger in the cheese he weighs and deals.
Meanwhile, the glimpse we may take of him shows Bill Wyvern urging
along his pen until clean paper became magic manuscripts; living upon
a billow of hope when the envelopes were sped, submerged beneath
oceans of gloom when they were returned; trembling into Fleet Street
deliciously to inhale the thick smell of printer's ink that came
roaring up from a hundred basements; with goggle eyes venerating the
men who with assured steps passed in and out the swing-doors of
castles he burned to storm; snatching brief moments for the boisterous
society of Korah, Dathan, and Abiram, those rare bull-terriers; and
finally, expending with his Margaret moments more protracted--stealthy
meetings, for the most part--in Mr.
Pages:
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134