“Pity that. I might have got you some reporting jobs.”
“But I do not want reporting jobs.”
“Then you will get nothing.”
Jingles was rather offended than cast down.
“I see what it is, Uncle Welsh,” he said in a tone of irritation, “you journalists are a close corporation, and you will not admit an intruder. You are jealous of an invasion within your circle, just as a parcel of commercials resent the entry of any but a commissioned bagman into their coffee-room.”
“Not a bit; but we do object to a raw bumpkin who has not gone through his apprenticeship giving himself airs, and pretending to an equality with us who have drudged at the trade till we have mastered its technicalities.”
“I presume that a good education and brains qualify a man to write.”
“Not necessarily—certainly not to write leaders. I dare say we might hand over to you the reviewing of children’s books. That would come within your range.”
“It is an insult to offer such a thing.”
“Indeed! You know little of literature or you would not say so. Formerly, when education was scarce, there were but a few writers, and they were well paid. Now education is universal, and every one who can handle a pen thinks he can write, even if he be imperfectly acquainted with spelling. Education now is as common, as general, as pocket-handkerchiefs. Both were luxuries fifty years ago. Literature is glutted with aspirants; brain is as common as æsthetic colours, as embroidered sunflowers, and Japanese lacquer. What is rare is muscle. Learn some mechanical art, and you will find biceps pays better than brain.”