When I told him my name, he seemed to have a glimmer of some half-forgotten compact.
“Oh, yes! The young man from the North.... Wasn’t there some talk of making a place for you in The Daily Mail?”
My heart fell down a precipice.... I mentioned the offer that had been made and accepted. But Harmsworth looked a little doubtful.
“Page Four? Well, hardly that, perhaps. I’ve appointed another editor.”
I thought of my wife and babe, and unpaid bills.
“Do you mind touching the bell?” asked Harmsworth.
The usual boy came in, and was ordered to send down a certain gentleman whose name I did not hear. Presently the door opened, and a tall, thin, pale, handsome, and extremely haughty young gentleman sauntered in and said “Good afternoon,” icily.
Harmsworth presented me to Filson Young, whom afterward I came to know as one of the most brilliant writers in Fleet Street, as he still remains. Not then did I guess that we should meet as chroniclers of world war in the ravaged fields of France.
“Oh, Young,” said Harmsworth, in his suavest voice, “this is a newcomer, named Philip Gibbs. I half promised him the editorship of Page Four.”
Here he tapped Young on the shoulder, and added in a jocular way: