to describe it. For an hour he wrestled with the problem, and then he had
another inspiration. Henry's novel would be about a boy called Thomas who
had lived in Cornwall and who came to London and wrote a novel {about a
boy called Stephen who had lived in Cornwall, and who came to London and
wrote a novel (about a boy called Michael who had lived in Cornwall, and
who came to London and wrote a novel (about a boy called Peter, who had
lived in Cornwall, and ...) ...

And so on.

And every one of the novels would establish the author's right to be
reckoned, etc., and place him undoubtedly in the very front rank.

It was a stupendous idea. For a moment John was almost paralysed at
contemplation of it. There seemed to be no end to his novel as he had
planned it. Was it too much for his powers?

There was only one way to find out. He hurried back to his
bed-sitting-room, seized a pen and began to write.



III


It was two years later. For the last fortnight John Penquarto had stopped
counting the money in his belt. There was none left. For a fortnight now
he had been living on the belt itself.

But a great hope had always sustained him. One day he would hear from the