You have an
extraordinary gift for description."
Burton drew a long sigh of relief.
"Thank you," he said. "How much shall you pay me for it?"
The sub-editor estimated the length of the production. It was not an
easy matter, owing to the odd scraps of paper upon which it was written.
"Will ten guineas be satisfactory?" he inquired.
"Very satisfactory indeed," Burton replied, "and I should like it now,
at once, please. I need some money to send to my wife."
The sub-editor rang for the cashier.
"So you are married," he remarked. "You seem quite young."
"I am married," Burton admitted. "I am not living with my wife just now
because we see things differently. I have also a little boy. They live
down at Garden Green and I send them money every Saturday."
"What do you do? What is your occupation?"
"I just wander about," Burton explained. "I used to be an auctioneer's
clerk, but I lost my situation and I couldn't get another."
"What made you think of writing?" the sub-editor asked, leaning a little
over towards his new contributor.
"I picked up a copy of your newspaper on a seat in the Park," Burton
replied. "I saw that article on 'London Awake.' I thought if that sort
of thing was worth printing, it was worth paying for, so I tried to do
something like it.
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