Huntley stared at Hamish as if he could scarcely take in the news.
It was, however, only the simple truth. When Martin Pope paid a visit
to Hamish, one summer night, frightening Hamish and Arthur, who dreaded
it might be a less inoffensive visitor; frightening Constance, for that
matter, for she heard more of their dread than was expedient; his
errand was to tell Hamish that in future he was to be paid for his
papers: payment was to commence forthwith. You may remember the
evening, though it is long ago. You may also remember Martin Pope's
coming hurriedly into the office in Guild Street, telling Hamish some
one was starting by the train; when both hastened to the station,
leaving Arthur in wonder. That was the very London editor himself. He
had been into the country, and was taking Helstonleigh on his way back
to town; had stayed in it a day or two for the purpose of seeing Martin
Pope, who was an old friend, and of being introduced to Hamish
Channing. That shy feeling of reticence, which is the characteristic of
most persons whose genius is worth anything, had induced Hamish to bury
all this in silence.
"But when have you found time to write?" exclaimed Mr. Huntley, unable
to get over his surprise. "You could not find it during office hours?"
"Certainly not. I have written in the evening, and at night. I have
been a great rake, stopping up later than I ought, at this writing."
"Do they know of it at home?"
"Some of them know that I sit up; but they don't know what I sit up
for.
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