“It must be read now.”
“This sort of thing isn’t done while one waits, you know.”
“I’m afraid this one will have to be done so.”
“Why, even if it’s promising,” Dicky declared severely, “it would have to be read several times.”
“I’ll wait.”
“But we have hundreds——”
“I know—may I not see the chief editor?”
Mr. Naidu turned slowly back to the bench, as if to resume his seat.
“You win,” Dicky slowly said. “I’ll take the story and read it now, though I’m only a deck hand. If it looks good enough, I’ll try to get Mr. Higgins to look——”
Five minutes after that, Dicky was deep in South Africa. Six thousand words in neat but faded typing, called The Little Man, about a diminutive Hindu person who appeared to have no other business in life but to stand up for the under dog. This person would fight anything, but the British Government was about the size of a foe he liked best—a cheerful story of most shocking suffering, which the Little Man took upon himself for the natives of Natal—no, not the natives, but for the Hindu laborers who had come to Africa to settle. A clear, burning patience through the pages; everything was carried in solution—all one breath, sustained. It wasn’t writing. It was living. It slid on with a soft inevitable rhythm, and it took Dicky along.