He had the book next day; and after ploughing through the first dozen pages his worst fears were realised. Peter Quentin was not destined to take his place in the genealogy of literature with Dumas, Tolstoy, and Conan Doyle. The art of writing was not in him. His spelling had a grand simplicity that would have delighted the more progressive orthographists, his grammatical constructions followed in the footsteps of Gertrude Stein, and his punctuation marks seemed to have more connection with intervals for thought and opening beer-bottles than with the requirements of syntax.
Moreover, like most first novels, it was embarrassingly personal.
It was this fact which made Simon follow it to the bitter end, for the hero of the story was one "Ivan Grail, the Robbin Hood of modern crime," who could without difficulty be identified with the Saint himself, his "beutifull wife," and "Frank Morris his acomplis whos hard-biten featurs consealed a very clever brain and witt." Simon Templar swallowed all the flattering evidences of hero-worship that adorned the untidy pages, and actually blushed. But after he had reached the conclusion — inscribed "FINNIS" in triumphant capitals — he did some heavy thinking.
Later on he saw Peter again.
"What was it that bit your features so hard?" he asked. "Did you try to kiss an alligator?"
Peter turned pink.
"I had to describe them somehow," he said defensively.
"You're too modest," said the Saint, after inspecting him again. "They were not merely bitten — they were thoroughly chewed."
"Well, what about the book?" said Peter hopefully. "Was it any good?"
"It was lousy," Simon informed him, with the privileged candour of friendship. "It would have made Dumas turn in his grave. All the same, it may be more readable after I've revised it for you. And perhaps we will let Comrade Par-stone publish it after all."