‘I was nearly fired out,’ he said furiously at lunch.  ’As soon as I mentioned you, the old man said that I was to tell you that they didn’t want any more of your practical jokes, and that you knew the hours to call if you had anything to sell, and that they’d see you condemned before they helped to puff one of your infernal yarns in advance.  Say, what record do you hold for truth in this country, anyway?’

’A beauty.  You ran up against it, that’s all.  Why don’t you leave the English papers alone and cable to New York?  Everything goes over there.’

‘Can’t you see that’s just why?’ he repeated.

‘I saw it a long time ago.  You don’t intend to cable then?’

‘Yes, I do,’ he answered, in the over-emphatic voice of one who does not know his own mind.

That afternoon I walked him abroad and about, over the streets that run between the pavements like channels of grooved and tongued lava, over the bridges that are made of enduring stone, through subways floored and sided with yard-thick concrete, between houses that are never rebuilt, and by river steps hewn, to the eye, from the living rock.  A black fog chased us into Westminster Abbey, and, standing there in the darkness, I could hear the wings of the dead centuries circling round the head of Litchfield A. Keller, journalist, of Dayton, Ohio, U.S.A., whose mission it was to make the Britishers sit up.

He stumbled gasping into the thick gloom, and the roar of the traffic came to his bewildered ears.

‘Let’s go to the telegraph-office and cable,’ I said.  ’Can’t you hear the New York World crying for news of the great sea-serpent, blind, white, and smelling of musk, stricken to death by a submarine volcano, and assisted by his loving wife to die in mid-ocean, as visualised by an American citizen, the breezy, newsy, brainy newspaper man of Dayton, Ohio?  ’Rah for the Buckeye State.  Step lively!  Both gates!  Szz!  Boom!  Aah!’ Keller was a Princeton man, and he seemed to need encouragement.

‘You’ve got me on your own ground,’ said he, tugging at his overcoat pocket.  He pulled out his copy, with the cable forms—­for he had written out his telegram—­and put them all into my hand, groaning, ’I pass.  If I hadn’t come to your cursed country—­If I’d sent it off at Southampton—­If I ever get you west of the Alleghannies, if——­’

’Never mind, Keller.  It isn’t your fault.  It’s the fault of your country.  If you had been seven hundred years older you’d have done what I am going to do.’

‘What are you going to do?’

‘Tell it as a lie.’

‘Fiction?’ This with the full-blooded disgust of a journalist for the illegitimate branch of the profession.

‘You can call it that if you like.  I shall call it a lie.’

And a lie it has become; for Truth is a naked lady, and if by accident she is drawn up from the bottom of the sea, it behoves a gentleman either to give her a print petticoat or to turn his face to the wall and vow that he did not see.