“James,” I would say, “you go round to Mr. Phil May's studio; tell him you've come for the drawing that he promised Mr. Jerome last Friday week; and wait till you get it.”
If Phil May wasn't in, he would wait till Phil May did come in. If Phil May was engaged, he would wait till Phil May was disengaged. The only way of getting him out of the studio was to give him a drawing. Generally Phil May gave him anything that happened to be handy. It might be the drawing he had intended for me. More often, it would be a sketch belonging, properly speaking, to some other editor. Then there was trouble with the other editor. But Phil May was used to trouble. He was a thirsty soul. His wife used to tell the story that one night he woke her up, breaking crockery. It seemed he was looking for water. The water-bottle was empty.
“Oh, well, drink out of the jug,” suggested Mrs. May; “there's plenty of water in that. I filled it myself, the last thing.”
“I've finished that,” said May.
He had been in the office of an art dealer in Liverpool, before he came to London. They hadn't got on together. There had been faults on both sides, one gathered. The old man also came to London and established himself in Bond Street. From him, I obtained an insight into the ways of picture dealers. He looked me up one day at my office.
“Could you put your hand on a journalist,” he asked me, “who knows anything about art?”
“Sounds easy,” I answered. “Most of them know everything. What is it you want?”
“He needn't know much,” he went on. “I want him to write me an article about Raeburn. I'll tell him just what I want him to say. All he's got to do is to make it readable, with plenty of headlines. Then I want you to make a special feature of it in To-day.”
“Wait a bit,” I said. “From all I've heard, this man Raeburn is dead. Where does the excitement come in, from my point of view?”
“I'm not asking you to do it for nothing,” he explained. “Send your advertisement man to me and he and I will fix it up.”