Philip Van Doren Stern (ed) (169 page)

But
in
a
little
time
we
shall
run
out
of
the
portholes
as
the
water
runs along
the
oarblade,
and
though
you
tell
the
others
to
row
after
us
you
will never
catch
us
till
you
catch
the
oar-thresh
and
tie
up
the
winds
in
the
belly of
the
sail.
Aho!

Will
you
never
Jet
us
go?" "H'm.
What's
oar-thresh,
Charlie?"

"The
water
washed
up
by
the
oars.
That's
the
sort
of
song
they might
sing
in
the
galley,
y'know.
Aren't
you
ever
going
to
finish that
story
and
give
me
some
of
the
profits?"

"It
depends
on
yourself.
If
you
had
only
told
me
more
about
your hero
in
the
first
instance
it
might
have
been
finished
by
now.
You're so
hazy
in
your
notions."

"I
only
want
to
give
you
the
general
notion
of
it—the
knocking about
from
place
to
place
and
the
fighting
and
all
that.
Can't
you fill
in
the
rest
yourself?
Make
the
hero
save
a
girl
on
a
pirate-galley and
marry
her
or
do
something."

"You're
a
really
helpful
collaborator.
I
suppose
the
hero
went through
some
few
adventures
before
he
married."

"Well
then,
make
him
a
very
artful
card—a
low
sort
of
man—a sort
of
political
man
who
went
about
making
treaties
and
breaking them—a
black-haired
chap
who
hid
behind
the
mast
when
the fighting
began."

"But
you
said
the
other
day
that
he
was
red-haired."

"I
couldn't
have.
Make
him
black-haired
of
course.
You've
no imagination."

Seeing
that
I
had
just
discovered
the
entire
principles
upon
which the
half-memory
falsely
called
imagination
is
based,
I
felt
entitled
to laugh,
but
forbore,
for
the
sake
of
the
tale.

"You're right. You're the man with
imagination. A black-haired chap in a decked ship," I said.

"No, an open ship—like a big boat."
This was maddening.

"Your ship has been built and designed,
closed and decked in; you said so yourself," I protested.

"No, no, not that ship. That was open, or half decked because
---------------------

By
Jove you're right. You made me think of the hero as a red-haired chap. Of
course if he were red, the ship would be an open one with painted sails."

Surely, I thought, he would remember now that
he had served in two galleys at least—in a three-decked Greek one under the
black-haired "political man," and again in a Viking's open
sea-serpent under the man "red as a red bear" who went to Markland.
The devil prompted me to speak.

"Why 'of course,' Charlie?" said I.

"I don't know. Are you making fun of me?"

The current was broken for the time being. I
took up a notebook and pretended to make many entries in it.

"It's a pleasure to work with an
imaginative chap like yourself," I said, after a pause. "The way that
you've brought out the character of the hero is simply wonderful."

"Do you think so?" he answered,
with a pleased flush. "I often tell myself that there's more in me than my
mo—than people think."

"There's an enormous amount in you."

"Then, won't you let me send an essay on
The Ways of Bank-Clerks to
Tit-Bits,
and
get the guinea prize?"

"That wasn't exactly what I meant, old fellow: perhaps it would be
better to wait a little and go ahead with the galley-story."

"Ah, but I sha'n't get the credit of
that.
Tit-Bits
would publish my name and address if I win. What are you grinning at?
They would."

"I know it. Suppose you go for a walk. I
want to look through my notes about our story."

Now this reprehensible youth who left me, a
little hurt and put back, might for aught he or I knew have been one of the
crew of the Argo—had been certainly slave or comrade to Thorfin Karlsefne.
Therefore he was deeply interested in guinea competitions. Re
mcmbering
what
Grish
Chunder
had
said
I
laughed
aloud.
The Lords
of
Life
and
Death
would
never
allow
Charlie
Meats
to
speak with
full
knowledge
of
his
pasts,
and
I
must
even
piece
out
what he
had
told
me
with
my
own
poor
inventions
while
Charlie
wrote of
the
ways
of
bank-clerks.

I
got
together
and
placed
on
one
file
all
my
notes;
and
the
net result
was
not
cheering.
I
read
them
a
second
time.
There
was
nothing that
might
not
have
been
compiled
at
secondhand
from
other
people's books—except,
perhaps,
the
story
of
the
fight
in
the
harbor.
The adventures
of
a
Viking
had
been
written
many
times
before;
the history
of
a
Greek
galley-slave
was
no
new
thing,
and
though
I wrote
both,
who
could
challenge
or
confirm
the
accuracy
of
my details?
I
might
as
well
tell
a
tale
of
two
thousand
years
hence.
The Lords
of
Life
and
Death
were
as
cunning
as
Grish
Chunder
had hinted.
They
would
allow
nothing
to
escape
that
might
trouble or
make
easy
the
minds
of
men.
Though
I
was
convinced
of
this, yet
I
could
not
leave
the
tale
alone.
Exaltation
followed
reaction, not
once,
but
twenty
times
in
the
next
few
weeks.
My
moods
varied with
the
March
sunlight
and
flying
clouds.
By
night
or
in
the
beauty of
a
spring
morning
I
perceived
that
I
could
write
that
tale
and shift
continents
thereby.
In
the
wet,
windy
afternoons,
I
saw
that the
tale
might
indeed
be
written,
but
would
be
nothing
more
than a
faked,
false-varnished,
sham-rusted
piece
of
Wardoun
Street
work at
the
end.
Then
I
blessed
Charlie
in
many
ways—though
it
was no
fault
of
his.
He
seemed
to
be
busy
with
prize
competitions,
and I
saw
less
and
less
of
him
as
the
weeks
went
by
and
the
earth
cracked and
grew
ripe
to
spring,
and
the
buds
swelled
in
their
sheaths.
He
did not
care
to
read
or
talk
of
what
he
had
read,
and
there
was
a
new ring
of
self-assertion
in
his
voice.
I
hardly
cared
to
remind
him
of
the galley
when
we
met;
but
Charlie
alluded
to
it
on
every
occasion, always
as
a
story
from
which
money
was
to
be
made.