‘I want to retouch my stuff.  Suppose we wait till we get to London?’ he said.

Zuyland, by the way, had torn up his account and thrown it overboard that morning early.  His reasons were my reasons.

In the train Keller began to revise his copy, and every time that he looked at the trim little fields, the red villas, and the embankments of the line, the blue pencil plunged remorselessly through the slips.  He appeared to have dredged the dictionary for adjectives.  I could think of none that he had not used.  Yet he was a perfectly sound poker-player and never showed more cards than were sufficient to take the pool.

‘Aren’t you going to leave him a single bellow?’ I asked sympathetically.  ’Remember, everything goes in the States, from a trouser-button to a double-eagle.’

‘That’s just the curse of it,’ said Keller below his breath.  ’We’ve played ’em for suckers so often that when it comes to the golden truth—­I’d like to try this on a London paper.  You have first call there, though.’

’Not in the least.  I’m not touching the thing in our papers.  I shall be happy to leave ’em all to you; but surely you’ll cable it home?’

‘No.  Not if I can make the scoop here and see the Britishers sit up.’

’You won’t do it with three columns of slushy headline, believe me.  They don’t sit up as quickly as some people.’

’I’m beginning to think that too.  Does nothing make any difference in this country?’ he said, looking out of the window.  ’How old is that farmhouse?’

‘New.  It can’t be more than two hundred years at the most.’

‘Urn.  Fields, too?’

‘That hedge there must have been clipped for about eighty years.’

‘Labour cheap—­eh?’

’Pretty much.  Well, I suppose you’d like to try the Times, wouldn’t you?’

‘No,’ said Keller, looking at Winchester Cathedral. ’’Might as well try to electrify a haystack.  And to think that the World would take three columns and ask for more—­with illustrations too!  It’s sickening.’

‘But the Times might,’ I began.

Keller flung his paper across the carriage, and it opened in its austere majesty of solid type—­opened with the crackle of an encyclopaedia.

’Might!  You might work your way through the bow-plates of a cruiser.  Look at that first page!’

‘It strikes you that way, does it?’ I said.  ’Then I’d recommend you to try a light and frivolous journal.’

‘With a thing like this of mine—­of ours?  It’s sacred history!’

I showed him a paper which I conceived would be after his own heart, in that it was modelled on American lines.

‘That’s homey,’ he said, ’but it’s not the real thing.  Now, I should like one of these fat old Times columns.  Probably there’d be a bishop in the office, though.’

When we reached London Keller disappeared in the direction of the Strand.  What his experiences may have been I cannot tell, but it seems that he invaded the office of an evening paper at 11.45 a.m. (I told him English editors were most idle at that hour), and mentioned my name as that of a witness to the truth of his story.