the day before yesterday gazing solemnly for ten minutes in at a milliner's window. Fleet Street at this moment is simply running with men who want to air their views about things in general.'
'I suppose so,' said Rob dolefully.
'Yes, and each thinks himself as original as he is profound, though they have only to meet to discover that they repeat each other. The pity of it is, that all of them could get on to some extent if they would send in what is wanted. There is copy in every man you meet, and, as a journalist on this stair says, when you do meet him you feel inclined to tear it out of him and use it yourself.'
'What sort of copy?' asked Rob.
'They should write of the things they have seen. Newspaper readers have an insatiable appetite for knowing how that part of the world lives with which they are not familiar. They want to know how the Norwegians cook their dinners and build their houses, and ask each other in marriage.'
'But I have never been out of Britain.'
'Neither was Shakspeare. There are thousands of articles in Scotland yet. You must know a good deal about the Scottish weavers—well, there are articles in them. Describe the daily life of a gillie: "The Gillie at Home" is a promising title. Were you ever snowed up in your saw-mill? Whether you were or not, there is a seasonable subject for January. "Yule in a Scottish Village" also sounds well, and there is a safe article in a Highland gathering.'
'These must have been done before, though,' said Rob.
'Of course they have,' answered Rorrison; 'but do them in your own way: the public has no memory, and besides, new publics are always springing up.'
'I am glad I came to see you,' said Rob, brightening considerably; 'I never thought of these things.'
'Of course you need not confine yourself to them. Write on politics if you will, but don't merely say what you yourself think; rather tell, for instance, what is the political situation in the country parts known to you. That should be more interesting and valuable than your individual views. But I may tell you that, if you have the journalistic faculty, you will always be on the look-out for possible articles. The man on the stair I have mentioned to you would have had an article out of you before he had talked with you as long as I have done. You must have heard of Noble Simms?'
'Yes, I know his novel,' said Rob; 'I should like immensely to meet him.'
'I must leave you an introduction to him,' said Rorrison; 'he wakens most people up, though you would scarcely think it to look at him. You see this pipe here? Simms saw me mending it with sealing-wax one day, and two days afterwards there was an article about it in the Scalping Knife. When I went off for my holidays last summer I asked him to look in here occasionally and turn a new cheese which had been sent me from the country. Of course he forgot to do it, but I denounced him on my return for not keeping his solemn promise, so he revenged himself by publishing an article entitled "Rorrison's Oil-Painting." In this it was explained that just before Rorrison went off for a holiday he got a present of an oil-painting. Remembering when he had got to Paris that the painting, which was come to him wet from the easel, had been left lying on his table, he telegraphed to the writer to have it put away out of reach of dust and the cat. The writer promised to do so, but when Rorrison returned he found the picture lying just where he left it. He rushed off to his friend's room to upbraid him, and did it so effectually that the friend says in his article, "I will never do a good turn for Rorrison again!"'
'But why,' asked Rob, 'did he turn the cheese into an oil-painting?'
'Ah, there you have the journalistic instinct again. You see a cheese is too plebeian a thing to form the subject of an article in the Scalping Knife, so Simms made a painting of it. He has had my Chinese umbrella from several points of view in three different papers. When I play on his piano I put scraps of paper on the notes to guide me, and he made his three guineas out of that. Once I challenged him to write an article on a straw that was sticking to the sill of my window, and it was one of the most interesting things he ever did. Then there was the box of old clothes and other odds and ends that he promised to store for me when I changed my rooms. He sold the lot to a hawker for a pair of flower-pots, and wrote an article on the transaction. Subsequently he had another article on the flower-pots; and when I appeared to claim my belongings he got a third article out of that.'
'I suppose he reads a great deal?' said Rob.
'He seldom opens a book,' answered Rorrison; 'indeed, when he requires to consult a work of reference he goes to the Strand and does his reading at a bookstall. I don't think he was ever in the British Museum.'
Rob laughed.
'At the same time,' he said, 'I don't think Mr. Noble Simms could get any copy out of me.'
Just then some one shuffled into the passage, and the door opened.
Chapter IX.
Mr. Noble Simms
The new-comer was a young man with an impassive face and weary eyes, who, as he slouched in, described a parabola in the air with one of his feet, which was his way of keeping a burned slipper on. Rorrison introduced him to Rob as Mr. Noble Simms, after which Simms took himself into a corner of the room, like a man who has paid for his seat in a railway compartment and refuses to be drawn into conversation. He would have been a handsome man had he had a little more interest in himself.
'I thought you told me you were going out to-night,' said Rorrison.
'I meant to go,' Simms answered, 'but when I rang for my boots the housekeeper thought I asked for water, and brought it, so, rather than explain matters to her, I drank the water and remained indoors.'
'I read your book lately, Mr. Simms,' Rob said, after he had helped himself to tobacco from Simms's pouch, 'Try my tobacco,' being the Press form of salutation.
'You did not buy the second volume, did you?' asked Simms, with a show of interest, and Rob had to admit that he got the novel from a library.
'Excuse my asking you,' Simms continued, in his painfully low voice; 'I had a special reason. You see I happen to know that, besides what went to the libraries, there were in all six copies of my book sold. My admirer bought two, and I myself bought three and two-thirds, so that only one volume remains to be accounted for. I like to think that the purchaser was a lady.'
'But how did it come about,' inquired Rob, while Rorrison smoked on imperturbably, 'that the volumes were on sale singly?'
'That was to tempt a public,' said Simms gravely, 'who would not take kindly to the three volumes together. It is a long story, though.'
Here he paused, as if anxious to escape out of the conversation.
'No blarney, Simms,' expostulated Rorrison. 'I forgot to tell you, Angus, that this man always means (when he happens to have a meaning) the reverse of what he says.'
'Don't mind Rorrison,' said Simms to Rob. 'It was in this way. My great work of fiction did fairly well at the libraries, owing to a mistake Mudie made about the name. He ordered a number of copies under the impression that the book was by the popular novelist, Simmons, and when the mistake was found out he was too honourable to draw back. The surplus copies, however, would not sell at all. My publisher offered them as Saturday evening presents
