“Scottie,” on the other hand, was a prosperous person. He had a talent for inventing jingling refrains which “caught on” with the public; his comic songs, “patriotic” songs, and dance music were whistled by every street boy, and ground out by every piano organ in London.
Fletewode Garth reached the house of this prosperous man; it was a little house in the suburbs, with a lilac tree bursting into bloom in the small front garden. Mr. Scottie had lunched an hour before his visitor’s arrival; but, being conscienceless in such matters, he lied and said he was famished, and luncheon was late. This he did because he knew Fletewode Garth was hungry; for, before he and the public had discovered his gift for tunes, he was a struggling provincial actor, stranded in South Wales by a decamping manager; wherefore he had tramped to the nearest large town, went forty-eight hours without food, and slept under a hayrick in a pelting thunderstorm; this invaluable experience caused him to feel for Fletewode, and also caused him to perceive the signs of famine, and shape his lie in accordance with his observations. Now if some persons had refrained from that lie, it would have indicated in them a high regard for truth; but if Mr. Scottie had refrained from it, it would have argued lack of sympathy rather than morality; for he lied fairly often, and believed it to be necessary; therefore his untruthfulness to Fletewode was an act of unmixed virtue.
After luncheon he told his guest he wanted verses—up-to-date verses—to which he could attach tunes; his old friend Farquharson, who used to write them for him, was dead; would Fletewode try to fill his place. It was pure philanthropy on the part of this patron of poetry; he could get countless jingles of the kind he needed; but he was sorry for the lad, whose white face, hollow eyes, and air of nervous strain, had touched him.
Fletewode said he would try. He went home, and thought for a few minutes. Then he drew from his memory a quaint country tale from his old home; he cast it into the form of a ballad. It was stirring enough; a story of love and heroism, of those elemental passions of the race which are always young, always able to grip the imagination. The next day he took it to his patron, who shook his head.
“My dear chap,” said he amiably, “this won’t do. I want something which will go down at the Rag Bag. Never been to the Rag Bag? Great Scott! How on earth can you write unless you know the world? I’ll give you a pass. You go and see for yourself the kind of thing I want.”
Fletewode went to the Rag Bag; at first the foolish vulgarity of the songs, the dull, sordid atmosphere of the place, wearied him. Then his mind, an ever-plastic machine, adapted itself a little; he began to take a sort of amused pleasure in learning the “trick of the thing.” His cleverness began to prompt him; to show him how easily he could write rhymes much more pointed, much more witty, and considerably more harmful, than the majority of these coarse, imbecile jingles; his genius, which was the power beyond, held his mind back, and said: “Keep these powers holy for me.”
Next day he went to see Scottie, and told him he did not care to do it.
“Why not?” said his patron, a little piqued.
“I don’t care to wade in the gutter mud,” said Fletewode irritably, and indeed, very rudely and ungratefully; but he was over-strung and tormented by various sections of his mental and emotional make-up pulling at him at once, and each in a different direction.
“What bosh,” said the other. “Gutter mud! Gutter mud be hanged! The people want it. Old Farquharson was as decent a fellow as ever breathed. You think the poor old chap has gone below, I suppose, because he wrote these things to keep his missus and kids out of the workhouse? Well! Of all the beastly cant——”