Giới thiệu truyện
VIII.—BED CLOTHESEGERTON walked into my private room on Saturday morning and flung a bundle of MS. on my table.
"Read that," he said.
I was irritated. Egerton is my junior partner—between us we constitute the publishing firm of Burdett Egerton—but I object to his breaking in on me when I am busy.
"What is it?" I asked.
"It's a story," he said; "a story which has been submitted to me for the magazine."
The Tower Magazine is one of our ventures, and it is understood between us that Egerton is responsible for it. I resented his trying to make me do his work.
"Who's it by?" I asked.
"I don't know. It's sent to me without name or address attached to it."
"Then for goodness' sake put it in the waste-paper basket and don't bother me."
"It's good," said Egerton. "It's so good that——"
"Then publish it; but for heaven's sake let me alone. I'm going down to the country for the week- end, and if I'm to catch my train I must——"
"Very well then, I'll publish it; but if there's a hideous row afterwards, don't blame me."
Egerton is one of those men who pride themselves on freedom from conventional prejudice. If he thinks a thing is good from a literary point of view he does not care
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