“This,” I said, “is a magnificent opportunity for you. You’ll be able to send off a telegram to your newspaper which will make your fortune as a correspondent.”
“I don’t see that,” said Bland. “If there’d been a little slaughter I might have made something out of it. But a statue! Hang it all! One statue is rather a poor bag for the British Fleet. The people are proud of their navy. They’ve spent a lot of money on it, and they won’t like being told that it has hit nothing but a statue, after a long morning’s shooting.”
Bland had not grasped my idea. For a moment I was inclined to keep it for my own use and work it up into an article when I got time. But Bland deserved something from me. I resisted the temptation and gave him the idea.
“I wish,” I said, “that I were a special correspondent. I’d—”
“Well,” said Bland. “What would you say?”
“I should take that New Zealander who stood on the broken arch of Westminster Bridge and—”
“Macaulay’s,” said Bland. “I don’t think that the public would stand him again. He’s played out.”
“Not in the way I mean to use him. I should, so to speak, spiritualize him, and—”
“Hold on a minute,” said Bland.