Scoop-Evelyn-Waugh [60]
Two months ago when Lord Copper summoned me from my desk in the Beast office, to handle the biggest news story of the century, I had never been to Ishmaelia. I knew little of foreign politics. I was being pitted against the most brilliant brains, the experience, and the learning of the civilized world. I had nothing except my youth, my will to succeed, and what � for want of a better word � must call my flair. In the two months' battle of wits ...
William could read no more. Overcome with shame, he turned towards the train. A telegraph boy was loafing about the platform uttering monotonous, monosyllabic, plaintive, gull-like cries which, in William's disturbed mind, sounded like "Boot. Boot. Boot." William turned guiltily towards him; he bore a cardboard notice, stuck, by a felicitous stroke of fancy, into a cleft stick, on which was inscribed in unmistakable characters, "BOOT." "I'm afraid that must be for me," said William. "There's a whole lot of them." The train seemed likely to start. William took the telegrams and opened them in the carriage, under the curious eyes of his fellow travellers.
PERSONALLY GRATIFIED YOUR SAFE RETURN COPPER
BEAST REPRESENTATIVE WILL MEET YOU VICTORIA STOP PLEASE REPORT HERE IMMEDIATELY YOU RETURN STOP TALK BUSINESS NO ONE SALTER
WILL YOU ACCEPT FIVE YEAR CONTRACT FIVE THOUSAND YEAR ROVING CORRESPONDENT EDITOR BRUTE
PLEASE WIRE AUTHORITY NEGOTIATE BOOK SERIAL CINEMA RIGHTS AUTOBIOGRAPHY PAULS LITERARY AGENCY
There were others, similarly phrased. William released them, one by one as he read them, at the open window. The rush of air whirled them across the charred embankment to the fields of stubble and stacked corn beyond.
At Victoria it was, once again, William's luggage which betrayed him. As he stood among the crates and bundles waiting for a taxi, a very young man approached him and said, "I say, please, are you William Boot?" He had a pimply, eager face. "Yes." "I'm from the Beast. They sent me to meet you. Mr. Salter did." "Very kind of him." "I expect you would like a drink after your journey." "No thank you." "Mr. Salter said I was to ask you." "Very kind of him." "I say, please have a drink. Mr. Salter said I could put down as expenses." The young man seemed very eager. "All right," said William. "You wouldn't know me," said the young man as they walked to the buffet. "I'm Bateson. I've only been on the paper three weeks. This is the first time I've charged anything on expenses. In fact it is the first time I've drawn any money from the Beast at all. I'm 'on space,' you see." "Ah." They reached the buffet and Bateson bought some whisky. "I say," he said, "would you think it awful cheek if I asked you to do something?" "What?" "It's your big story. I've got a first edition of it." He drew a grubby newspaper from his pocket. "Would you sign it for me?" William signed. "I say, thanks awfully. I'll get it framed. I've been carrying it about ever since it appeared � studying it, you know. That's the way they told me in the Correspondence School. Did you ever take a Correspondence School Course?" "No." Bateson looked disappointed. "Oh dear, aren't they a good thing? They're terribly expensive." "I expect they are a very good thing." "You do think so, don't you? I'm a graduate of the Aircastle School. I paid fifteen shillings a month and I got a specially recommended diploma. That's how I got taken on the Beast. It's a great chance, I know. I haven't had anything in the paper yet. But one has to start sometime. It's a great profession, isn't it?" "Yes, I suppose in a way it is." "It must be wonderful to be like you," said Bateson wistfully. "At the top. It's been a great chance my meeting you like this. I could hardly believe it when Mr. Salter picked me to come. 'Go and greet Boot,' he said. 'Give him a drink. Get him here before he signs on with the Brute.' You wouldn't want to sign on with the Brute, would you?' You do think the Beast is the leading paper, don't you? I mean it's the greatest chance you can have working for the Beast?" "Yes." "I am glad. You see it's rather depressing sometimes, day after day and none of one's stories getting printed. I'd like to be a foreign correspondent like you. I say, would you think it awful cheek if I showed you some of the stuff I write? In my spare time, I do it. I imagine some big piece of news and then I see how I should handle it. Last night in bed I imagined an actress with her throat cut. Shall I show it to you?" "Please do," said William, "sometime. But I think we ought to be going now." "Yes, I suppose we should. But you do think it's a good way of training oneself