But if Hammer had forgotten Doblana, I had not. The possibility of living in a musician's decent house was too tempting, and I decided to call upon him that very afternoon.
A rapid footstep interrupts me. It is Sergeant Young who comes back.
"That's all right, Police Constable," he says (I bet he has forgotten that my real name is Patrick Cooper), "you need not worry about these hand grenades, we'll have them in half a mo. I've blackmailed the colonel in the most shameless way, but I've succeeded."
He takes my MS. and reads the second chapter.
"That will never do," he says after a while. "If you mix up our trench business with your Austrian affairs, how do you hope that the reader will find his way?"
"He will muddle through."
"No publisher will accept it in this form."
"Well, he will have it edited. Editors must live."
The Sergeant sees that there is nothing to be done, and goes on reading.