“It is not a case of sudden impulse—I have felt very much the same about it, though I haven’t always been quite so explicit with myself, ever since I came to sea, or, at least, ever since I began to realize what this job leads to. If I have stood it so long, why not longer? I have tried to fight it down. But, although I might make myself do a great deal of work, I can’t make myself care for it, and, after very long and careful consideration, I have come to the conclusion that the end must inevitably come.
“The great problem is that of money. I have always realized how much trouble you have taken, and how much money you have spent, in starting me in a profession, and I know that throwing it over now means a great sacrifice for you. First, there’s the cost of getting me out—the Admiralty will want something; then, if I am to enter almost any formal profession, the cost of training and educating me all over again; and lastly, there’s the uncertainty—instead of the present certainty—as to how much money I shall ultimately earn, and when I shall begin to earn it. It seems all money.
“Of course, what I want to do is to write—you have known of that fatal desire ever since I could hold a pen. And I want to be free—but let that pass now, since this is almost a business letter. I should like to go to Oxford, but I’m afraid that’s impossible. So I think the best thing is to get out first—that’s the essential. And then, with a little help from you as a start, I could take rooms in a far corner of London and start in journalism. The future would take care of itself. I think Mr. Alter would help with advice as regards journalism.
“I am very, very sorry for all this. I know the trouble and worry I must be causing you. If I tried to explain in detail what has led up to this I should never end: the causes go back further than I can trace them. It may be quite impossible for reasons of money that I should leave. If so, tell me, and I shall manage to settle down as I am. But I had to ask in case, just for lack of asking, I was letting slip the one chance of another start.
“I will send some little news very soon.
“J. L.”
“Jack Pots!” cried a poker player. The chips rattled into a saucer. “What about some drinks?... Drink for you, Lynwood?”
“No, thanks very much.”
He put his letter into an envelope, stamped and addressed it, and scribbled “Via Siberia” across its corner. Then, having dropped it into a hollow-voiced letter-box, he left the Gunroom. The decision being now inevitable, he dared discuss it with Hartington.
“Can I come in, Hartington? or—or are you reading?”