He was essentially a taciturn man. There was an effect of rudeness in his fragmentary sentences. It was some time before I discovered that what he would be at was the process by which stories—stories for periodicals—were produced.
What could one say to a fellow like that? But I was bored to death; the weather continued impossible; and I resolved to be amiable.
“And so you make these tales up on your own. How do they ever come into your head?” he rumbled.
I explained that one generally got a hint for a tale.
“What sort of hint?”
“Well, for instance,” I said, “I got myself rowed out to the rocks the other day. My boatman told me of the wreck on these rocks nearly twenty years ago. That could be used as a hint for a mainly descriptive bit of story with some such title as ‘In the Channel,’ for instance.”
It was then that he flew out at the boatmen and the summer visitors who listen to their tales. Without moving a muscle of his face he emitted a powerful “Rot,” from somewhere out of the depths of his chest, and went on in his hoarse, fragmentary mumble. “Stare at the silly rocks—nod their silly heads [the visitors, I presume]. What do they think a man is—blown-out paper bag or what?—go off pop like that when he’s hit—Damn silly yarn—Hint indeed! . . . A lie?”
You must imagine this statuesque ruffian enhaloed in the black rim of his hat, letting all this out as an old dog growls sometimes, with his head up and staring-away eyes.
“Indeed!” I exclaimed. “Well, but even if untrue it is a hint, enabling me to see these rocks, this gale they speak of, the heavy seas, etc., etc., in relation to mankind. The struggle against natural forces and the effect of the issue on at least one, say, exalted—”
He interrupted me by an aggressive—