"It's about Ron. The year of probation is nearly over."
"I know it."
"Two months more will decide whether he is to be a broker or a poet. It
will mean death to Ronald to be sent into the City."
"You are wrong there. If he is a poet, no amount of brokering will
alter the fact, any more than it will change the colour of his eyes or
hair. It is bound to come out sooner or later. You will probably think
me a brute, if I suggest that a little discipline and knowledge of the
world might improve the value of his writings."
"Yes, I will! What does a poet want with a knowledge of the world, in
the common, sordid sense? Let him keep his mind unsullied, and be an
inspiration to others. When we were children, we used to keep birds in
the nursery, in a very fine cage with golden bars, and we fed them with
every bird delicacy we could find. They lived for a little time, and
tried to sing, poor brave things! We threw away the cage in a fury,
after finding one soft dead thing after another lying huddled up in a
corner. No one shall cage Ronald, if I can prevent it! It's no use
pretending to be cold-blooded and middle-aged, Jack, for I know you are
with us at heart. This means every bit as much to Ron as your business
troubles do to you."
Jack drew in his breath with a wince of pain.
"Well, what is it you wish me to do? I am afraid I have very little
influence in the literary world, and I have always heard that
introductions do more harm than good. An editor would soon ruin his
paper if he accepted all the manuscripts pressed upon him by admiring
relatives."
"But you see I don't ask you for an introduction. It's just a piece of
information I want, which I can't get for myself. You know the
Loadstar Magazine?"
"Certainly I do."
"Well, the Loadstar is--the Loadstar! The summit of Ron's ambition.
It's the magazine of all others which he likes and admires, and the
editor is known to be a man of great power and discernment. It is said
that if he has the will, he can do more than any man in London to help
on young writers. It is useless sending manuscripts, for he refuses to
consider unsolicited poetical contributions. He shuts himself up in a
fastness in Fleet Street, and the door thereof is guarded with dragons
with lying tongues. I know! I have made it my business to inquire, but
I feel convinced that if he once gave Ron a fair reading, he would
acknowledge his gifts. There is no hope of approaching him direct, but
I intend to get hold of him all the same."