“Learn! Do you suppose this office is a nursery shop for teaching sucklings how to draw their milk? Are you ready for anything?”
“Anything—”
“Yes—they all say that. Journalism isn't any fun, you know.”
“I'm not looking for fun.”
“Well, it's the damnedest trade out. Anything's better. But you want to write?”
“I must.”
“Yes—exactly. Well, I like the look of you. More blood and bones than most of the rotten puppies that come into this office. I've no job for you at the moment though. Go back to your digs and write something—anything you like—and send it along—leave me your address. Oh, ho! Bucket Lane—hard up?”
“I'm all right, thank you.”
“All right, I wasn't offering you charity—no need to put your pride up. I shan't forget you ... but send me something.”
The clouds had now enveloped the sun. As Peter, a little encouraged by this last experience but tired with a dull, listless fatigue, crept into the dark channels of Bucket Lane, the rain began to fall with heavy solemn drops.