He says nothing and stares into my face. Then after a while he asks:
"Have you written any more of that stuff?"
"What stuff?"
"That story of yours."
"Oh, I see. Yes. I have."
"Let's see."
I show him my story. He reads quickly, very quickly, skipping half-pages; in short, he reads as I should not like you, for instance, to read it. In less than half-an-hour he has run through all the pages. When he has finished he takes a long breath as though he felt relieved.
"Look here, P. C.," he says, "when you began that story I thought it was all stuff and nonsense. It amused me, and sometimes I thought that you knew how to strike a note of sincerity."
(I earnestly wish to point out that this kind of criticism is not my own; I guarantee that it is by Sergeant Young.)
He goes on: