feelings as a writer, his love of honourable and honest work, his
disdain for blurb and blat. And by an author's attitude toward the
purveyors of publicity, you may know him.

One evening about the beginning of December, 1915, I was sitting by the
open fire in Hempstead, Long Island, a comparatively inoffensive young
man, reading the new edition of Flecker's "The Golden Journey to
Samarkand" issued that October by Martin Secker in London. Mr. Secker,
like many other wise publishers, inserts in the back of his books the
titles of other volumes issued by him. Little did I think, as I turned
to look over Mr. Secker's announcements, that a train of events was
about to begin which would render me, during the succeeding twelve
months, a monomaniac in the eyes of my associates; so much so that when
I was blessed with a son and heir just a year later I received a
telegram signed by a dozen of them: "_Congratulations. Name him
Casuals_!"

It was in that list of Mr. Secker's titles for the winter of 1915-16
that my eyes first rested, with a premonitory lust, upon the
not-to-be-forgotten words.

MCFEE, WILLIAM: CASUALS OF THE SEA.

Who could fail to be stirred by so brave a title? At once I wrote for a
copy.

My pocket memorandum book for Sunday, January 9, 1916, contains this
note:

"Finished reading _Casuals of the Sea_, a good book. H---- still laid up