“I never tried.”
“Write ’istory, or ’igh hart, and that sort of thing?”
“I have not tried. I know mostly about bibliography.”
“Bibli—who? You’ll turn your ’and to anything for a crust, I suppose. Do you ever do anything in the puff line?”
Jeffreys admitted he had not.
“’Cos I want a chap to crack up my ‘Polyglot Pickle’ in proper literary style. None of your commonplace maunderings, but something smart and startling. What do you say? Can you do it or not?”
Jeffreys heart sank low. “I’ll try—”
“Can you do it?” demanded the proud inventor.
“Yes,” said Jeffreys desperately.
“All right,” said Mr Trotter, greatly relieved. “I want a book of twenty pages. Write anything you like, only bring the pickles in on each page. You know the style. Twenty blood-curdling ballads, or Aesop’s fables, or something the public’s bound to read. Something racy, mind, and all ending in the pickle. It’s a good thing, so you needn’t be afraid of overdoing it. You shall have a bob a page, money down, or twenty-five bob for the lot if you let me have it this time to-morrow. Remember, nothing meek and mild. Lay it on thick. They’re the best thing going, and got a good name. Polyglot, that’s many tongues; everybody tastes ’em.”