CHAPTER V
IN WHICH HENRY DECIDES
Up to the night of the fire, Henry had only been dreaming of what he wished to do in the world of work. Unless one of his age has had his fate sharply settled for him by being placed at some trade or profession—for which he is usually unsuited—by the masterful action of his parents, he has, at best, a nebulous vision of the path he will pursue.
With natural instinct, and aided by the accident of Edward John's business relations in Stratford, Henry had looked to literature through the gateway of the book-shop—of all, the most unlikely. But he had been shorn speedily of his illusions in that quarter.
A month in the establishment of Mr. Ephraim Griggs had left him wondering if he were a footstep nearer his goal than he had been before he bade farewell to Hampton. If the Temple of Literature which he had builded in his brain had not exactly crumbled into nothingness, it was no longer possible to rub shoulders with the slatternly Griggs and the insipid Pemble, and still to dream dreams such as had held his mind when he determined to fare forth an adventurer into the unknown realms of Bookland.
The weeks dragged on wearily. So rude had been Henry's experience of the second-hand book-shop, in disgust he had almost concluded that after all there was as much glory in his father's business as in that of Mr. Griggs. Trevor Smith, however, had appeared on the scene at an opportune moment, and sent his thoughts off at a tangent.
Clearly, journalism was the high road to literature. It enabled one to get into print, and that, at least, was a great matter.
Already the agreeable Trevor could pose as Henry's literary godfather. He had allowed him to write one or two simple notes about the visit of a circus to the town and the annual flower-show, and these had actually appeared in type in the Guardian.