“I am not going to publish one,” said I.
“You are getting lazy,” said Marston, flinging himself into the most capacious of the lounging chairs.
“Everybody is publishing a Christmas book,” said Falx, lighting his cigar with the first proof-sheet of his review upon one.
“And who is Everybody?”
“The universe generally: England, Ireland, Scotland, and the Isle of Man, France, and the still vexed Bermoothes. More immediately: Mr. Walch, Mr. Whitworth, and the ‘Vagabond.’”
“I have promised to write both for Walch and the ‘Vagabond,’” said I. “Whitworth usually writes his books himself.”
“And do you intend to keep your promise?” asked Marston. “I have not yet made up my mind. Probably not.”
“But that will not prevent you bringing out a book yourself,” said Falx.
“No. But I am sick of Christmas books. I tried to write one last year. Indeed, I got as far as being paid in advance for it—and there I stuck.”
“Your admission justifies me in the belief which I have always privately had of you,” said Marston. “You are utterly without Moral Principle.”
“I have often been uncomfortably inclined to think so myself,” said I. “But I will make a proposition.”
“A penny in the pound was the last one, wasn’t it?” growled Falx, under his breath; “and not accepted, I believe, by our numerous creditors.”
“Don’t, Falx,” said dear old Tallowfat; “we may all be offering a penny in the pound shortly if this Bursting Up Act becomes law.”
“No politics,” said Marston. “Let us hear what the gentleman has to say.”
“I was about to observe,” said I, “that I do know a story which seems to me to be rather curious and entertaining; I will tell it, and we shall see if it suggests any idea of another story to any of you.”
“So that you may get an original idea out of each of us,” said Marston, “and sell the same to your own profit. I have hopes of you. You are becoming a Man of Business.”
“And what may be Mr. Marston’s notions of man of business?”
“A man of business,” said Marston, oracularly, “is one who becomes possessed of other people’s money without bringing himself within the purview of the law.”
“But I haven’t got any original ideas,” cried Tallowfat, in alarm.
“No man ever sounded the depths of his own ignorance,” said Falx, coolly. “You are only a wealthy squatter, and little is expected from you.”
“Well,” said Marston, “the notion is novel. Pass one of the claret bottles and the cigars, and proceed.”
“The story which I have the honour to submit to you, gentlemen,” said I, “I have called the Romance of Lively Creek. The claret is in the ice-chest, and the cigar-box on the cane-chair.”