The poem he was now finishing for The Evening Surprise was his first contribution to that paper, but he had little doubt that it would be accepted. It was called quite simply, "Love and Death," and it began like this:
"Love! O love! (All other things above).—Why, O why, Am I afraid to die?"
There were six more lines which I have forgotten, but I suppose they gave the reason for this absurd diffidence.
Having written the poem out neatly, Harold put it in an envelope and took it round to The Evening Surprise. The strain of composition had left him rather weak, and he decided to give his brain a rest for the next few days. So it happened that he was at the wickets on the following Wednesday afternoon when the commissionaire brought him in the historic letter. He opened it hastily, the shovel under his arm.
"DEAR SIR," wrote the editor of The Surprise, "will you come round and see me as soon as convenient?"
Harold lost no time. Explaining that he would finish his innings later, he put his coat on, took his hat and stick, and dashed out.
"How do you do?" said the editor. "I wanted to talk to you about your work. We all liked your little poem very much. It will be coming out to-morrow."
"Thursday," said Harold helpfully.
"I was wondering whether we couldn't get you to join our staff. Does the idea of doing 'Aunt Miriam's Cosy Corner' in our afternoon edition appeal to you at all?"
"No," said Harold, "not a bit."