"Then you've read it?" I said.
Bertrand knocked the ash from his cigar and thought out a disparaging answer.
"Oh, I looked at it," he said vaguely. "It's unequal. Some parts worse than others."
"It was written by several people," I explained.
"Which part was your handiwork?"
"Which did you think the worst?" I asked in turn.
My uncle looked at me suspiciously.
"You're not proud of your precious babe," he observed.
"The opportunity would be too irresistible for you if I were."
Then he laughed, and with that laugh was born the friendship of many years. It was a pity, he felt, that a young man should bury himself in the dreariest house of the dampest county of the damnedst island in the world. Why should I not come to London, see a little of politics and society, 'try it on the dog, so to say'—which by amplification meant testing the principles of "Thursday Essays" on a popular meeting? If, as a good, catholic hater, there was one thing he hated more than another, it was writing letters: why should I not sign on as his secretary? Though untrained, I should learn much, and anyone with enough superfluous energy to rush into print could handle his correspondence before breakfast.