Philip Van Doren Stern (ed) (158 page)

"Not
in
the
least.
Did
you
make
up
anything
else?"

"Yes,
but
it's
nonsense."
Charlie
flushed
a
little.

"Never
mind;
let's
hear
about
it."

"Well,
I
was
thinking
over
the
story,
and
after
awhile
I
got
out
of bed
and
wrote
down
on
a
piece
of
paper
the
sort
of
stuff
the
men might
be
supposed
to
scratch
on
their
oars
wi*h
the
edges
of
their handcuffs.
It
seemed
to
make
the
thing
more
lifelike.
It
is
so
real
to me,
y'know."

"Have
you
the
paper
on
you?"

"Ye-es,
but
what's
the
use
of
showing
it?
It's
only
a
lot
of
scratches. All
the
same,
we
might
have
'em
reproduced
in
the
book
on
the
front page."

"I'll
attend
to
those
details.
Show
me
what
your
men
wrote."

He
pulled
out
of
his
pocket
a
sheet
of
note-paper,
with
a
single
line of
scratches
upon
it,
and
I
put
this
carefully
away.

"What
is
it
supposed
to
mean
in
English?"
I
said.

"Oh,
I
don't
know.
Perhaps
it
means
'I'm
beastly
tired.'
It's
great nonsense,"
he
repeated,
"but
all
those
men
in
the
ship
seem
as
real
as people
to
me.
Do
do
something
to
the
notion
soon;
I
should
like
to see
it
written
and
printed."

"But
all
you've
told
me
would
make
a
long
book."

"Make
it
then.
You've
only
to
sit
down
and
write
it
out."

"Give
me
a
little
time.
Have
you
any
more
notions?"

"Not
just
now.
I'm
reading
all
the
books
I've
bought.
They're splendid."

When
he
had
left
I
looked
at
the
sheet
of
note-paper
with
the inscription
upon
it.
Then
I
took
my
head
tenderly
between
both hands,
to
make
certain
that
it
was
not
coming
off
or
turning
round.

Then
.
.
.
but
there
seemed
to
be
no
interval
between
quitting
my rooms
and
finding
myself
arguing
with
a
policeman
outside
a
door marked
Private
in
a
corridor
of
the
British
Museum.
All
I
demanded, as
politely
as
possible,
was
"the
Greek
antiquity
man."
The
policeman knew
nothing
except
the
rules
of
the
Museum,
and
it
became
necessary
to
forage
through
all
the
houses
and
offices
inside
the
gates.
An elderly
gentleman
called
away
from
his
lunch
put
an
end
to
my
search by
holding
the
note-paper
between
finger
and
thumb
and
sniffing
at it
scornfully.

"What
does
this
mean?
H'mm,"
said
he.
"So
far
as
I
can
ascertain it
is
an
attempt
to
write
extremely
corrupt
Greek
on
the
part"—here he
glared
at
me
with
intention—"of
an
extremely
illiterate—ah—person."
He
read
slowly
from
the
paper,
"Pollock,
Erckmann,
Tauchnitz, Henniker"—four
names
familiar
to
me.

"Can
you
tell
me
what
the
corruption
is
supposed
to
mean—the gist
of
the
thing?"
I
asked.