Pym’s publishers knew their man, and their arrangement with him was that he was paid on completion of the tale.  But always before he reached the middle he struck for what they called his honorarium; and this troubled them, for the tale was appearing week by week as it was written.  If they were obdurate, he suddenly concluded his story in such words as these: 

“Several years have passed since these events took place, and the scene changes to a lovely garden by the bank of old Father Thames.  A young man sits by the soft-flowing stream, and he is calm as the scene itself; for the storm has passed away, and Percy (for it is no other) has found an anchorage.  As he sits musing over the past, Felicity steals out by the French window and puts her soft arms around his neck.  ‘My little wife!’ he murmurs. The End—­unless you pay up by messenger.”

This last line, which was not meant for the world (but little would Pym have cared though it had been printed), usually brought his employers to their knees; and then, as Tommy advanced in experience, came the pickings—­for Pym, with money in his pockets, had important engagements round the corner, and risked intrusting his amanuensis with the writing of the next instalment, “all except the bang at the end.”

Smaller people, in Tommy’s state of mind, would have hurried straight to the love-passages; but he saw the danger, and forced his Pegasus away from them.  “Do your day’s toil first,” he may be conceived saying to that animal, “and at evenfall I shall let you out to browse.”  So, with this reward in front, he devoted many pages to the dreary adventures of pretentious males, and even found a certain pleasure in keeping the lady waiting.  But as soon as he reached her he lost his head again.

“Oh, you beauty! oh, you small pet!” he said to himself, with solemn transport.

As the artist in him was stirred, great problems presented themselves; for instance, in certain circumstances was “darling” or “little one” the better phrase?  “Darling” in solitary grandeur is more pregnant of meaning than “little one,” but “little” has a flavour of the patronizing which “darling” perhaps lacks.  He wasted many sheets over such questions; but they were in his pocket when Pym or Elspeth opened the door.  It is wonderful how much you can conceal between the touch on the handle and the opening of the door, if your heart is in it.

Despite this fine practice, however, he was the shyest of mankind in the presence of women, and this shyness grew upon him with the years.  Was it because he never tried to uncork himself?  Oh, no!  It was about this time that he, one day, put his arm round Clara, the servant—­not passionately, but with deliberation, as if he were making an experiment with machinery.  He then listened, as if to hear Clara ticking.  He wrote an admirable love-letter—­warm, dignified, sincere—­to nobody in particular, and carried it about in his pocket in readiness.  But in love-making, as in the other arts, those do it best who cannot tell how it is done; and he was always stricken with a palsy when about to present that letter.  It seemed that he was only able to speak to ladies when they were not there.  Well, if he could not speak, he thought the more; he thought so profoundly that in time the heroines of Pym ceased to thrill him.