IN FLEET STREET,

Gisborne Times, Volume XXV, Issue 2218, 23 October 1907, Page 5 (Supplement)

IN FLEET STREET,

(By Albert Dorrington, in itlie “Lone Hand.”)

I found myself, one wet morning, looking at tho row of book aho-psfrom tlio bottom of Fleet-street. One could not help feeling that tho wraiths of innumerable murdered authors lingered in the dark, rain-soaked byways and office entrances. For half-an-hour I lingered in the gateway, watching tho book-waggons rumbling past; the more heavily-laden ones boomeda'long with tho sound of Oyama’s gun at Mukden. In Australia I had seen books wheeled in barrows and packing cases from the steamers’ holds, hut I had never realised then ian author’s efforts would require a two-storied motorwaggon to move them.

“Them books,” said a carter, pointing with his whip to a passing pyramid of yellow-backs, “.is goin’ to the trunk-makers to bo reviewed.” A clingy-looking cart, loaded with magazine hack-numbers, ambled by. On top of the unsold heap sat an applc-clieeked man, eating a hot pie. There were English and American magazines in that vast heap, and their funeral filled luo with sullen resentment against the cheerful little man .with tho pie. Strolling in the footsteps of Doctor Johnson, I passed down Fleet-street, until the signboard of a well-known literary agent caught my eye. Without ceremony I entered, and found myself in a well-furnished oflico, where tlio portraits of a dozen famous writers hung dejectedly on the wall. (Why do famous writers wear bad ties and a dejected look?)

The agent rose at sight of me like ono accustomed to meeting burglars in a hurry. Ho was a clean-shaved, tight-breeched little man, with a lawyer-like smile, and a pair of eyes tliut fell upon you like live shot. Ho read my card, and bowed. 1 feel sure that, bowing was invented to giro literary agents a chance to- iiir speci a poor author’s boots. This fcUaw salaamed like a Ciugalee bas-ket-seller.

He had heard my name, lie said. It had blown itself across tho sea, appended to several illustrations — dog-fights. Ho also inferred that his time was of considerable rulne, and he advised me to skate my MSS. down the shoot when passing the office —it saved time and cxplanatloue.

(Suddenly a boll at bis elbow rang sharply. Rising, bo left the room stealthily, closing tho door softly, i was not to bo lolt alone, however. Tlio agent’s lady secretary appeared, and i)laced herself in front of a typewriter.

“You aro an Australian artist, I prdsunio,” slio began gently. “Wo Ibid one of your countrymen here last year—a Mr. Randolp Gagford.” “Bedford,” I corrected sternly. “Oh, Bedford, of course. Dear mo, what a tremendous little ge,n- ---■ tleman lie was I Ho would come in here on Monday morning with a novel, and call again in tlio afternoon to see if we had disposed of tlie English and American rights.” “Quito so,” I answered enthusiastically. “Six hours aro long enough to hold a man’s work and judge it. Men dispose of horses in half tho time, and a horse is a more complex animal than a one-volume novel.” Tlio lady secretary tittered uncertainly. It was tho kind of a chuckle one hears from neglected children and stowaways. “Wo all admired Mr Bagford,” slio went on. “Ho used to tell us such thrilling stories. Being a rancli-ow-. nor, ho ” “Ranch-owner!” I broke in. “Nothing of tho kind. Ho is olio of our oil magnates, and in no way connected with ranches.”

“Oh, yes, of course; I had almost forgotten. But he was so impressive. Tlio young men at the Authors’ Club used to call him tho little avalanche in tlio frock coat. Wasn’t that a tribute?” “Hurrah, Australia!” I said faint-

“And you sent us another literary man,” she continued; “a Mr Lawrence.”

“Lawrence,” I muttered. “Tail cliap, with brown eyes. Lawson, eh?” “Oil, yet; Lawson I” Her eyes sparkled jubilantly. “Like Mr Bagford, he used to come here on Monday morning, but ho never brought manuscript—he was always going to.

I don’t know what ho used to say to Mr Brown, hut it took them three hours to explain things. Mr Lawrence was a sheep farmer,” she said, looking up. “Ho showed mo tho photograph of life merino herds grazing in the Domain, opposite Parliament House.”

“A few of them got into tho House occasionally,” I said meekly. “And how did your Mr Lawrence affect London?”

“They all impress London,” she answered evasively. “But you Australian writers aro not stayers. You come and go in scores. Some of you become canvassers and bookmakers’ clerks. Some do well, hut tho majority go to the Agent-General for their return passage.”

“Other authors beside Australians come hero?” I ventured.

“Oh, yes, wo get plenty of what Mr. Brown calls tho gold-,nib men and tho ice-blast authors from Klondyke. They come with their pockets full of cow-stories, and books about the Yukon drifts, and oil, dear! those dog-busters of Dawson City!”

Her mouth seemed to twitch violently. I could not see whether she was laughing or weeping, but I knew I had met a woman who recognised the cow-boy author’s breath when it foil through the office door.