“Not shoemaker,” laughed Hamish. “Book-maker. The truth is, Mr. Huntley—But will you promise to keep my secret?”
“Ay. Honour bright.”
“I don’t want it to be known just yet. The truth is, I have been doing some literary work. Martin Pope gave me an introduction to one of the London editors, and I sent him some papers. They were approved of and inserted: but for the first I received no pay. I threatened to strike, and then payment was promised. The first instalment, I chiefly used to arrest my debts; the second and third to liquidate them. That’s where the money came from.”
Mr. Huntley stared at Hamish as if he could scarcely take in the news. It was, however, only the simple truth. When Martin Pope paid a visit to Hamish, one summer night, frightening Hamish and Arthur, who dreaded it might be a less inoffensive visitor; frightening Constance, for that matter, for she heard more of their dread than was expedient; his errand was to tell Hamish that in future he was to be paid for his papers: payment was to commence forthwith. You may remember the evening, though it is long ago. You may also remember Martin Pope’s coming hurriedly into the office in Guild Street, telling Hamish some one was starting by the train; when both hastened to the station, leaving Arthur in wonder. That was the very London editor himself. He had been into the country, and was taking Helstonleigh on his way back to town; had stayed in it a day or two for the purpose of seeing Martin Pope, who was an old friend, and of being introduced to Hamish Channing. That shy feeling of reticence, which is the characteristic of most persons whose genius is worth anything, had induced Hamish to bury all this in silence.
“But when have you found time to write?” exclaimed Mr. Huntley, unable to get over his surprise. “You could not find it during office hours?”
“Certainly not. I have written in the evening, and at night. I have been a great rake, stopping up later than I ought, at this writing.”
“Do they know of it at home?”
“Some of them know that I sit up; but they don’t know what I sit up for. By way of a blind—I suppose it may be called a justifiable deceit,” said Hamish, gaily—“I have taken care to carry the office books into my room, that their suspicions may be confined to the accounts. Judy’s keen eyes detected my candle burning later than she considered it ought to burn, and her rest has been disturbed with visions of my setting the house on fire. I have counselled her to keep the water-butt full, under her window, so that she may be safe from danger.”
“And are you earning money now?”
“In-one sense, I am: I am writing for it. My former papers were for the most part miscellaneous—essays, and that sort of thing; but I am about a longer work now, to be paid for on completion. When it is finished and appears, I shall startle them at home with the news, and treat them to a sight of it. When all other trades fail, sir, I can set up my tent as an author.”