Saying this, the new squire of Pitt Hall sighed, poured himself out a whisky and soda, drank it, lit a candle, and went to bed, followed by Archibald.
Within the week Mark saw Conquest, by appointment, and told him what had happened, asking at the same time for a settlement of his small account. To his dismay he learned that he was in the debt of Wisden and Evercreech. What was due for his first short story and the illustrated interview with the Rector of St. Anne's was swallowed up in the bill for printing the novel. Of this, not counting press copies, some three hundred and fifty had been sold, of which—as had been said—Jim Corrance bought one hundred outright.
"Our bill needn't bother you," said Conquest. "And the novel may square it yet. You ask for my advice. Frankly, then, I say—journalism, but it's uphill work. You've got to make a special study of editors—and what they want. The stuff which Jones prints and pays for, Smith, perhaps, won't even take the trouble to return as unavailable."
"Can you give me anything?"
"Nothing except advice, Samphire, and a letter or two. We are chock full. Of course I'll always consider what you send me, but we have our regular staff, and fifty besides waiting to step into their shoes."
"If I could get a sub-editorship?"
"Ask for the moon at once. You don't know the ropes. Every fool thinks he can edit or sub-edit a paper, but the proprietors are not of their mind. You're a clever fellow, Samphire, but you'll pardon me for saying that you're kinky, and you seem to possess a vermiform appendix of a conscience. You can support yourself with your pen, when you know how to use it."
"I'm much obliged to you," said Mark humbly.
Conquest sent him half a dozen letters, which were presented in person. The editors, somehow, managed to convey the impression that they were obliging Conquest rather than the bearer of his credentials. Each promised, more or less courteously, to consider any work submitted. Tommy Greatorex, the pessimist, proved an unexpected source of sympathy and help. He learned that Mark spoke Italian. Together they explored Eyre Street Hill and the purlieus about Hatton Garden, an expedition which took concrete form in the shape of a paper dealing with the ice-cream vendors, the plaster-cast image sellers, and the like. Tommy sold the paper for twenty guineas, and divided the cheque with Mark. By chance Conquest learned of this, and wired for Mark.
"Greatorex says you talk Italian like a Dago. Would you care to translate an Italian novel for us? We'll pay you sixty pounds."