Simon picked up his tankard and strengthened himself with a deep draught.
"Herbert G. Parstone," he said, "is England's premier exponent of the publishing racket. Since you don't seem to know it, Peter, let me tell you that no reputable publisher in this or any other country publishes books at the author's expense, except an occasional highly technical work which goes out for posterity rather than profit. I gather that your book is by no means technical. Therefore you don't pay the publisher: he pays you — and if he's any use he stands you expensive lunches as well."
"But Parstone offers to pay—"
"A twenty-five per cent royalty. I know. Well, if you were something like a best seller you might get that; but on a first novel no publisher would give you more than ten, and then he'd probably lose money. After six months Parstone would probably send you a statement showing a sale of two hundred copies, you'd get a cheque from him for twelve pounds ten, and that's the last trace you'd see of your three hundred quid. He's simply trading on the fact that one out of every three people you meet thinks he could write a book if he tried, one out of every three of 'em try it, and one out of every three of those tries to get it published. The very fact that a manuscript is sent to him tells him that the author is a potential sucker, because anyone who's going into the writing business seriously takes the trouble to find out a bit about publishers before he starts slinging his stuff around. The rest of his game is just playing on the vanity of mugs. And the mugs — mugs like yourself, Peter — old gents with political theories, hideous women with ghastly poems, schoolgirls with nauseating love stories — rush up to pour their money into his lap for the joy of seeing their repulsive tripe in print. I've known about Herbert for many years, old lad, but I never thought you'd be the sap to fall for him."
"I don't believe you," said Peter glumly.
An elderly mouse-like man who was drinking at the bar beside him coughed apologetically and edged bashfully nearer.
"Excuse me, sir," he said diffidently, "but your friend's telling the truth."
"How do you know?" asked Peter suspiciously. "I can usually guess when he's telling the truth — he makes a face as if it hurt him."
"He isn't pulling your leg this time, sir," said the man. "I happen to be a proof-reader at Parstone's."
The surprising thing about coincidences is that they so often happen. The mouse-like man was one of those amazing accidents on which the fate of nations may hinge, but there was no logical reason why he should not have been drinking at that bar as probably as at any other hostel in the district. And yet there is no doubt that if Mr. Herbert Parstone could have foreseen the accident he would have bought that particular public-house for the simple pleasure of closing it down lest any such coincidence should happen; but unhappily for him Mr. Herbert Parstone was not a clairvoyant.