“Here,” said Mr. Thomson, “is a novel ready to your hand: all you have to do is to work up the scenery, develop the characters, and improve the style.”
“My dear fellow,” said I, “they are just the three things that I would rather die than set my hand to. It shall be published as it stands.”
“But it’s so bald,” objected Mr. Thomson.
“I believe there is nothing so noble as baldness,” replied I, “and I am sure there is nothing so interesting. I would have all literature bald, and all authors (if you like) but one.”
“Well, well,” said Mr. Thomson, “we shall see.”
[”Johnstone Thomson, W.S.,” is Mr. C. Baxter, W.S. (afterwards the author’s executor), with whom, as “Thomson Johnstone,” Stevenson frequently corresponded in the broadest of broad Scots.—The scene is laid in Mr. Baxter’s house, 7 Rothesay Place, Edinburgh.]