Part 5 (1/2)

I didn't know what to say, and she went on--

'It's awfully straight of you to stick to what your Father tells you, but look here, you take the s.h.i.+llings, and here's my card. When you get home tell your Father all about it, and if he says No, you can just bring the s.h.i.+llings back to me.'

So we took the s.h.i.+llings, and she shook hands with us and said, 'Good-bye, and good hunting!'

We did tell Father about it, and he said it was all right, and when he looked at the card he told us we were highly honoured, for the lady wrote better poetry than any other lady alive now. We had never heard of her, and she seemed much too jolly for a poet. Good old Kipling! We owe him those two s.h.i.+llings, as well as the Jungle books!

CHAPTER 5. THE POET AND THE EDITOR

It was not bad sport--being in London entirely on our own hook. We asked the way to Fleet Street, where Father says all the newspaper offices are. They said straight on down Ludgate Hill--but it turned out to be quite another way. At least _we_ didn't go straight on.

We got to St Paul's. Noel _would_ go in, and we saw where Gordon was buried--at least the monument. It is very flat, considering what a man he was.

When we came out we walked a long way, and when we asked a policeman he said we'd better go back through Smithfield. So we did. They don't burn people any more there now, so it was rather dull, besides being a long way, and Noel got very tired. He's a peaky little chap; it comes of being a poet, I think. We had a bun or two at different shops--out of the s.h.i.+llings--and it was quite late in the afternoon when we got to Fleet Street. The gas was lighted and the electric lights. There is a jolly Bovril sign that comes off and on in different coloured lamps. We went to the Daily Recorder office, and asked to see the Editor. It is a big office, very bright, with bra.s.s and mahogany and electric lights.

They told us the Editor wasn't there, but at another office. So we went down a dirty street, to a very dull-looking place. There was a man there inside, in a gla.s.s case, as if he was a museum, and he told us to write down our names and our business. So Oswald wrote--

OSWALD BASTABLE NOEL BASTABLE BUSINESS VERY PRIVATE INDEED

Then we waited on the stone stairs; it was very draughty. And the man in the gla.s.s case looked at us as if we were the museum instead of him. We waited a long time, and then a boy came down and said--

'The Editor can't see you. Will you please write your business?' And he laughed. I wanted to punch his head.

But Noel said, 'Yes, I'll write it if you'll give me a pen and ink, and a sheet of paper and an envelope.'

The boy said he'd better write by post. But Noel is a bit pig-headed; it's his worst fault. So he said--'No, I'll write it _now_.' So I backed him up by saying--

'Look at the price penny stamps are since the coal strike!'

So the boy grinned, and the man in the gla.s.s case gave us pen and paper, and Noel wrote. Oswald writes better than he does; but Noel would do it; and it took a very long time, and then it was inky.

DEAR MR EDITOR, I want you to print my poetry and pay for it, and I am a friend of Mrs Leslie's; she is a poet too.

Your affectionate friend,

NOEL BASTABLE.

He licked the envelope a good deal, so that that boy shouldn't read it going upstairs; and he wrote 'Very private' outside, and gave the letter to the boy. I thought it wasn't any good; but in a minute the grinning boy came back, and he was quite respectful, and said--'The Editor says, please will you step up?'

We stepped up. There were a lot of stairs and pa.s.sages, and a queer sort of humming, hammering sound and a very funny smell. The boy was now very polite, and said it was the ink we smelt, and the noise was the printing machines.

After going through a lot of cold pa.s.sages we came to a door; the boy opened it, and let us go in. There was a large room, with a big, soft, blue-and-red carpet, and a roaring fire, though it was only October; and a large table with drawers, and littered with papers, just like the one in Father's study. A gentleman was sitting at one side of the table; he had a light moustache and light eyes, and he looked very young to be an editor--not nearly so old as Father. He looked very tired and sleepy, as if he had got up very early in the morning; but he was kind, and we liked him. Oswald thought he looked clever. Oswald is considered a judge of faces.

'Well,' said he, 'so you are Mrs Leslie's friends?'

'I think so,' said Noel; 'at least she gave us each a s.h.i.+lling, and she wished us ”good hunting!”'

'Good hunting, eh? Well, what about this poetry of yours? Which is the poet?'

I can't think how he could have asked! Oswald is said to be a very manly-looking boy for his age. However, I thought it would look duffing to be offended, so I said--