Part 39 (1/2)

”Why, how do you know I live there?” and Helmsley smiled as he put the question.

”Oh, well, all the village knows that!--and though I'm quite new to the village--I've only been here a week--I know it too. You're old David, the basket-maker, aren't you?”

”Yes.” And Helmsley nodded emphatically--”That's me!”

”Then I know all about you! My name's Angus Reay. I'm a Scotchman,--I am, or rather, I _was_ a journalist, and as poor as Job! That's _me_!

Come along!”

The cheery magnetism of his voice and look attracted Helmsley, and almost before he knew it he was leaning on this new friend's arm, chatting with him concerning the village, the scenery, and the weather, in the easiest way possible.

”I came on here from Minehead,”--said Reay--”That was too expensive a place for me!” And a bright smile flashed from lips to eyes with an irresistible sunny effect; ”I've got just twenty pounds in the world, and I must make it last me a year. For room, food, fuel, clothes, drink and smoke! I've promptly cut off the last two!”

”And you're none the worse for it, I daresay!” rejoined Helmsley.

”Not a bit! A good deal the better. In Fleet Street the men drank and smoked pretty heavily, and I had to drink and smoke with them, if I wanted to keep in with the lot. I did want to keep in with them, and yet I didn't. It was a case of 'needs must when the devil drives!'”

”You say you were a journalist. Aren't you one now?”

”No. I'm 'kicked off'!” And Reay threw back his head and laughed joyously. ”'Off you go!' said my editor, one fine morning, after I had slaved away for him for nearly two years--'We don't want any canting truth-tellers here!' Now mind that stone! You nearly slipped. Hold my arm tighter!”

Helmsley did as he was told, quite meekly, looking up with a good deal of curiosity at this tall athletic creature, with the handsome head and masterful manner. Reay caught his enquiring glance and laughed again.

”You look as if you wanted to know more about me, old David!” he said gaily--”So you shall! I've nothing to conceal! As I tell you I was 'kicked off' out of journalism--my fault being that I published a leaderette exposing a mean 'deal' on the part of a certain city plutocrat. I didn't know the rascal had shares in the paper. But he _had_--under an 'alias.' And he made the devil's own row about it with the editor, who nearly died of it, being inclined to apoplexy--and between the two of them I was 'dropped.' Then the word ran along the press wires that I was an 'unsafe' man. I could not get any post worth having--I had saved just twenty pounds--so I took it all and walked away from London--literally _walked_ away! I haven't spent a penny in other locomotion than my own legs since I left Fleet Street.”

Helmsley listened with eager interest. Here was a man who had done the very thing which he himself had started to do;--”tramped” the road.

But--with what a difference! Full manhood, physical strength, and activity on the one side,--decaying power, feebleness of limb and weariness on the other. They had entered the village street by this time, and were slowly walking up it together.

”You see,”--went on Reay,--”of course I could have taken the train--but twenty pounds is only twenty pounds--and it must last me twelve solid months. By that time I shall have finished my work.”

”And what's that?” asked Helmsley.

”It's a book. A novel. And”--here he set his teeth hard--”I intend that it shall make me--famous!”

”The intention is good,”--said Helmsley, slowly--”But--there are so many novels!”

”No, there are not!” declared Reay, decisively--”There are plenty of rag-books _called_ novels--but they are not real 'novels.' There's nothing 'new' in them. There's no touch of real, suffering, palpitating humanity in them! The humanity of to-day is infinitely more complex than it was in the days of Scott or d.i.c.kens, but there's no Scott or d.i.c.kens to epitomise its character or delineate its temperament. I want to be the twentieth century Scott and d.i.c.kens rolled into one stupendous literary t.i.tan!”

His mellow laughter was hearty and robust. Helmsley caught its infection and laughed too.

”But why,”--he asked--”do you want to write a novel? Why not write a real _book_?”

”What do you call a real book, old David?” demanded Reay, looking down upon him with a sudden piercing glance.

Helmsley was for a moment confused. He was thinking of such books as Carlyle's ”Past and Present”--Emerson's ”Essays” and the works of Ruskin. But he remembered in good time that for an old ”basket-maker” to be familiar with such literary masterpieces might seem strange to a wide-awake ”journalist,” therefore he checked himself in time.

”Oh, I don't know! I believe I was thinking of 'Pilgrim's Progress'!” he said.

”'Pilgrim's Progress'? Ah! A fine book--a grand book! Twelve years and a half of imprisonment in Bedford Jail turned Bunyan out immortal! And here am I--_not_ in jail--but free to roam where I choose,--with twenty pounds! By Jove! I ought to be greater than Bunyan! Now 'Pilgrim's Progress' was a 'novel,' if you like!”