“I say, Netherby, your book is terrific though!”
“Thanks, Noll—you overwhelm me.... Ah, Noll, if all the world were as prejudiced an admirer as you are—and as frankly honest in the statement of their admiration—I might be a great man.”
“But, Netherby,” said Noll, eyeing him critically—“when did you discover you were clever?”
Gomme coughed:
“Well—er—when people began to tell me my own stories.”
“I wish I could write that sort of comic rot,” said Noll enviously.
“Noll, it is easy enough to be funny. I envy the man of action.”
The yellow-haired youth got up from his chair, lank and lean and awkward, and paced the room with prowling gait.
“To feel the blood tingle through one in hair’s-breadth escapes—to use one’s strength—to live, man, live!... To beat grips with life and danger and death, instead of writing lyrics or other tomfoolery about it, or about what you think other people ought to think about it!”
“Chuck it, Netherby!”