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‘Sir, please, sir, what does “due course” mean?’

James reflected. ‘Alter it to “immediately,”‘ he said.

‘Balbus is a great man,’ he wrote on the blackboard.

Two minutes later he was in the office of an important magazine, and there was a look of relief on the editor’s face, for James had practically promised to do a series of twelve short stories for him.

* * * * *

It has been well observed that when a writer has a story rejected he should send that story to another editor, but that when he has one accepted he should send another story to that editor. Acting on this excellent plan, James, being off duty for an hour after tea, smoked a pipe in his bedroom and settled down to work on a second effort for the Universal.

He was getting on rather well when his flow of ideas was broken by a knock on the door.

‘Come in,’ yelled James. (Your author is notoriously irritable.)

The new-comer was Adolf. Adolf was one of that numerous band of Swiss and German youths who come to this country prepared to give their services ridiculously cheap in exchange for the opportunity of learning the English language. Mr Blatherwick held the view that for a private school a male front-door opener was superior to a female, arguing that the parents of prospective pupils would be impressed by the sight of a man in livery. He would have liked something a bit more imposing than Adolf, but the latter was the showiest thing that could be got for the money, so he made the best of it, and engaged him. After all, an astigmatic parent, seeing Adolf in a dim light, might be impressed by him. You never could tell.

‘Well?’ said James, glaring.

‘Anysing vrom dze fillage, sare?’

The bulk of Adolf’s perquisites consisted of the tips he received for going to the general store down the road for tobacco, stamps, and so on. ‘No. Get out,’ growled James, turning to his work.

He was surprised to find that Adolf, so far from getting out, came in and shut the door.

‘Zst!’ said Adolf, with a finger on his lips.

James stared.

‘In dze garten zis morning,’ proceeded his visitor, grinning like a gargoyle, ‘I did zee you giss Violed. Zo!’

James’s heart missed a beat. Considered purely as a situation, his present position was not ideal. He had to work hard, and there was not much money attached to the job. But it was what the situation stood for that counted. It was his little rock of safety in the midst of a surging ocean of West Australian sheep. Once let him lose his grip on it, and there was no chance for him. He would be swept away beyond hope of return.

‘What do you mean?’ he said hoarsely.

‘In dze garten. I you vrom a window did zee. You und Violed. Zo!’ And Adolf, in the worst taste, gave a realistic imitation of the scene, himself sustaining the role of James.

James said nothing. The whole world seemed to be filled with a vast baa-ing, as of countless flocks.

‘Lizzun!’ said Adolf. ‘Berhaps I Herr Blazzervig dell. Berhaps not I do. Zo!’

James roused himself. At all costs he must placate this worm. Mr Blatherwick was an austere man. He would not overlook such a crime.

He appealed to the other’s chivalry.

‘What about Violet?’ he said. ‘Surely you don’t want to lose the poor girl her job? They’d be bound to sack her, too.’

Adolf’s eyes gleamed.

‘Zo? Lizzun! When I do gom virst here, I myself do to giss Violed vunce vish. But she do push dze zide of my face, and my lof is durned to hate.’

James listened attentively to this tabloid tragedy, but made no comment.

‘Anysing vrom dze fillage, sare?’

Adolf’s voice was meaning. James produced a half-crown.

‘Here you are, then. Get me half a dozen stamps and keep the change.’