Joyce received into his hands a thin volume in a gaudy paper wrapper. It was entitled “The Doom of the Floating Fiend.” The printing, in packed double-column, and the paper were execrable. The author’s name did not figure beneath the title. From the most cursory glance through the pages, Joyce could see they were deluged in blood.
“I shall be glad to read it,” he said, mendaciously, putting it into his pocket.
“If you find anything noteworthy of criticism in my style, I should feel grateful for you to tell me,” said Noakes. “My ambition is to write some day for a more cultured public. I have a pastoral idyll that I shall write when I have time. But, you see, there is a continuous market for books of adventure.”
He spoke in a toneless, even voice, without a shade of enthusiasm or regret appearing in his eyes.
“Do you think it would be of any use for an outsider to try it—one not in the swim with the publishers?” asked Joyce, curiously.
“Certainly. But one needs the imaginative faculty. If you ’ll look at my forehead, you will see I have it firmly developed. Allow me to look at yours. Yes; I see it there. Once started, it is constant employment. They pay half a crown per thousand words. I do my three thousand a day.”
Noakes rose to depart.
“Thanks for the information,” said Joyce. “I may try my hand. Won’t you have a glass with me before you go?”
“No, thank you,” said Noakes. “I find stimulants interfere with brain-work. Good evening.”
Noakes gone, Joyce found himself next to the red-headed ex-rector, who was fast asleep, his dirty, pudgy fingers clasped in his lap. He remained, therefore, solitary, and after having looked for some time dejectedly at the three ever-clicking balls on the table, he went out again into the street.