"Here 's a detective story we're sellin' like 'ot cakes."
Und. I merely wished to know—that was all. (Turning with resigned disgust to Drysdale.) Just think of it, my dear fellow. At a bookstall like this one feels the pulse, as it were, of Contemporary Culture; and here my Andromeda, which no less an authority than the Daily Chronicle hailed as the uprising of a new and splendid era in English Songmaking, a Poetic Renascence, my poor Andromeda is trampled underfoot by—(choking)—Men with Missing Toes! What a satire on our so-called Progress!
Drys. That a purblind public should prefer a Shilling Shocker for railway reading when for a modest half-guinea they might obtain a numbered volume of Coming Poetry on hand-made paper! It does seem incredible,—but they do. Well, if they can't read Andromeda on the journey, they can at least peruse a stinger on it in this week's Saturday. Seen it?
Und. No. I don't vex my soul by reading criticisms on my work. I am no Keats. They may howl—but they will not kill me. By the way, the Speaker had a most enthusiastic notice last week.
Drys. So you saw that then? But you're right not to mind the others. When a fellow's contrived to hang on to the Chariot of Fame, he can't wonder if a few rude and envious beggars call out "Whip behind!" eh? You don't want to get in yet? Suppose we take a turn up to the end of the platform.
[They do.
James Spurrell, M.R.C.V.S., enters with his friend, Thomas Tanrake, of Hurdell and Tanrake, Job and Riding Masters, Mayfair.
Spurrell. Yes, it's lucky for me old Spavin being laid up like this—gives me a regular little outing, do you see? going down to a swell place like this Wyvern Court, and being put up there for a day or two! I shouldn't wonder if they do you very well in the housekeeper's room. (To Clerk.) Give me a Pink 'Un and last week's Dog Fancier's Guide.
Clerk. We've returned the unsold copies. Could give you this week's; or there's The Rabbit and Poultry Breeder's Journal.